


To Steel

by cornix



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon - Book, Dubious Consent, F/M, Minor Character Death, Sansa has Agency, Slow Burn, angry roadtrip through Westeros, ish, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2018-11-14 12:52:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 70,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11208474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornix/pseuds/cornix
Summary: Sandor thinks himself a changed man when he leaves the Quiet Isle. In the Vale, Sansa is trying to adapt to her new life and second marriage.Circumstance has forced them both to adapt to their surroundings, but will they be able to reconcile each other with the images they've formed in their minds?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again lovelies! I wanted to try and write something longer this time, with an older Sansa (she is aged up to 20-22 here).  
> This story is unbeta'd and English is my second language, so if you find any errors please don't hesitate to let me know!

”You are not a patient man, Brother.”

”I’m not your brother, and you sure as all seven hells aren’t mine.”

”Yes, yes, if I were, you’d kill me, was it?”

The Elder Brother shakes his head in silent amusement. Sandor does not see the joke, but then, the Elder Brother has spent many years on the Quiet Isle. Most things are more amusing than hymns. Tossing his makeshift fishing rod to the side, Sandor stands up.

”I’m going to check on my horse.”

Sandor walks away as briskly as his bad leg will allow. Stranger - _Driftwood_ \- is fidgety and restless, much like Sandor feels. He only uses the courser for pulling carts these days, and he’d thought it a kindness at first, to spare Stranger from the violent life of a warhorse. _But do_ you _feel spared, dog? Or do you feel disused and withered?_

It is a fine afternoon. The sun shines on the west side of the Quiet Isle, and soft winds ripple through the lingering late summer warmth. Brothers Norbert and Syl have laid out nets in the fishing ponds, but of course the Elder Brother would think it necessary to actually _fish_ as well. It was no doubt meant as a lesson of some sort, in the virtues of patience or some similar crap. Sandor combs fallen leaves from Stranger’s mane with his fingers. The large horse is tied to a sapling tree no thicker than Sandor’s thumb, but it offers some resistance when he raises his black head. For the trained courser, it is enough. Sandor did not purchase Stranger for his intelligence. _No, you bought him to kick and bite and run, run, run, but here he is, pulling a cart of fish_.

It’s been weeks since he had a grave to dig. For most, this would seem a blessing. But Sandor’s body is crawling with restlessness so bad that he imagines he can _feel_ his muscles waste away. Some days, he even walks down the eastern shore, telling himself he’s not looking for a washed-up corpse to bury.

Brother Syl throws another filled net onto the cart and signs Sandor to bring the cart back up to the septry. Hearing the cart turn to leave, the Elder Brother speaks without turning around.

”You’ll gut and clean the fish for drying, Brother Sandor. Then you’ll meet me in the scribe chamber. I need your help sorting through letters.”

”You want the entire library to stink of fish? Or can I have a bath first?”

A pause.

”You may have a bath first, Brother Sandor.”

Sandor can _hear_ the bloody smile on the old man’s lips. Nevertheless, he obediently does as he is told. Just as Stranger has been trained to accept his tether, Sandor Clegane leans comfortably into following orders.

Hours later, as he crosses the cloisters with damp hair, he imagines he can still smell the fish gut on his fingers. _Better that than human gut_. He finds the Elder Brother in the scribe chamber, not looking particularly absorbed with sorting letters. There is one letter, though, that he holds loosely in his hands while looking out the leaded glass window. Sandor thinks he can see a blue broken seal.

”News?” Sandor asks. Elder Brother does not look at him.

”Do you remember when I told you what became of your brother?”

He does, but would prefer not to. He offers a grunt in reply.

Finally, the Elder Bother looks at him. There’s a sad glint in his eyes that Sandor knows all too well. Pity.

”You handled that…” Elder Brother trails off. ”Well, you didn’t, did you?”

”Out with it, whatever your trying to say,” Sandor barks, harsher than he intended to. Ice cold dread pools in his stomach, but he’s not certain why. There is nothing left for him to lose.

Elder brother takes a deep breath. Sandor swallows.

”Sansa Stark has been found.”

For several moments, the words do not register. His lungs seem to painfully contract as they finally sink in. A sudden pain shoots up his left arm, and he looks down to see his hand all white from its grip on the table next to him. He seems to be leaning on it. He turns back to Elder Brother.

”Alive? Safe?”

His voice is hoarse, urgent, desperate, but he is used to that shame by now.

”She’s at the Gates of the Moon in the Vale, under the protection of Petyr Baelish…”

_Littlefinger!_ A numb understanding dawns on him, along with an old rage he thought lost.

But the Elder Brother is not finished. He looks deceptively calm as he continues,

”…and her husband, Ser Harrold Hardyng.”

 

 

 


	2. Sansa I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that there is a brief description of a rape in this chapter, in the eighth paragraph (counting those with one word and one sentence). There are no details, but if you think this might be triggering to you it might be best to skip that paragraph.

Sansa sits by the window again. It’s that sort of morning. The view from the Falcon Tower is grand, overlooking the Vale of Arryn, only shadowed by the colossal Giant’s Lance. In her _(their)_ chambers at the top of the tower, she is at height with the eagles that fly circles in the sky. She wishes they were songbirds, instead, wishes that her husband would care to accompany her for her morning meal rather than hurry down to the sparring ring to scuffle about in front of admiring servant girls. She wishes that her husband was —

_No_.

Behind her, Sansa can hear Maddy enter the room with the sort of deliberate silence that only chambermaids can perfect. A faint whiff of sweet mint proceeds the steaming cup that is placed in her hands. She knows she ought to learn how to brew her moon tea herself, but she always stops herself before she’s mustered the courage to ask. Sansa has purposefully forgotten many things, but she still remembers how her lady mother would set her mouth in a thin line at the mention of moon tea, not saying a word but showing her distaste in every other way. _Mother_. For the first time in a long while, she allows herself to wonder what lady Catelyn would think of what has become of her eldest daughter. _Mother would not approve of Harry_ , she thinks with a sudden certainty, and the realization hurts more than she expected. Mother would never have imagined Sansa to secretly drink moon tea in borrowed chambers, hiding from the Crown and more alone than ever.

_No. I am not alone. I have my husband. And I have my Sweetrobin, even if he’ll never forgive me._

Robert Arryn did not take well to the news that Alayne Stone had been lying to him about her identity, nor the fact that Sansa had married Harry. But the little lord’s anger means little to the fact that Sansa’s new position allows her to protect him. Petyr never _told_ her that he planned to kill the Arryn heir, and so she can still feign ignorance and ask that the maester lower his doses of sweetsleep and milk of the poppy. From Alayne the bastard, that that would have been a meek request. From Sansa Stark it is an order.

It made Petyr furious, of course, but he’s had no choice but to hide his anger and pretend to be happy that Robert’s health is steadily improving.

Sansa sighs and sips her moon tea. Perhaps birds of prey are more fitting than songbirds, after all. She turns from the window, shivering, and idly watches Maddy clear the breakfast table before her eyes are reluctantly drawn to the bed. _Our bed_. It’s rather on the grandiose side, with carved falcons spreading their wings above the headrest and painted hunting scenes along the sides. It’s always seemed an odd choice of motif to Sansa. A wave of unease goes through her as she studies the disorderly state of it, all crumpled sheets and half tossed-off blankets as Maddy has not gotten to make it yet.

It is not that Sansa _dislikes_ what goes on in her marriage bed. Harry has proven to be a more attentive lover than she would ever have guessed. But she can’t help but be reminded of her wedding night, when she’d ended up in it, naked and resigned after the bedding ceremony. Harry had, of course, assumed she was a liar where her maidenhood was concerned, and had not been at all as gentle as her body had required. It was only after that Harry had realized his mistake, and his apologies meant little by then. It was a painful, humiliating experience, and not even the confusion their bloodied sheet caused in the great hall the next day could make up for it.

Sansa has learned much in the months that have passed since then, and some of it, she has come to enjoy. She likes how he holds her desperately when he finds his pleasure. She has come to _crave_ how he uses his mouth on her. She does _not_ like it when he tells her to hold still and presses down on her shoulders, or how his sloppy kisses leave a wet trail down her stomach.

Unthinking, she has brought her hand to her belly. There are mornings she can’t relax until she’s had her moon tea, terrified that any lapse might allow a child to grow in her. Sansa does not know why, but she is undeniably certain that she could not bear it if that were to happen. She can hardly stand to think of it.

Perhaps it is disappointment. Growing up, family meant something safe and warm, a place to call home. But homes can be burned, safety forgotten, and the cold winter is lurking behind every corner. Sansa thinks of her lord father, kind and just, slaughtered like a beast in front of a cheering crowd. She thinks of her lady mother, murdered and dumped in a river as if she were just another piece of flesh and bone. Arya, lost and forgotten. Bran and Rickon — _no_. Robb, strong, gentle and righteous, who died more concept than boy. Sansa is older now than he was when he died.

No, family is a frail and intangible thing, a second skin that will be torn from your body and leave you an open, bleeding wound. 

She suddenly feels like laughing. _This is what they’ve all been trying to teach me. Cersei, Petyr, the Hound…_ She sighs, and Maddy pretends not to notice. It’s a shame, that stepping closer to freedom would mean that she’s had to lose all her pretty dreams of songs. It’s even more of a shame that she’s still doing what is expected of her. Like a good little lady, Sansa has finally taken the advice she’s been given, and allowed for a bleak cynicism to creep into her mind. 

She sets the empty cup down, stands up, and smooths down her skirts. Petyr wants to meet with her. He still sends for her as though she were someone below his station, someone to be summoned at will and not a lady. But Sansa still allows herself to be summoned more often than not, both because she does not feel like arguing and because she will probably need Petyr again before all of this is over. The man is very skilled at making himself indispensable.

Sansa walks out the door and right into strong arms that grip her waist, and before she knows it, she is pulled into a searing kiss that makes her mind go mercifully quiet. She allows herself to revel in it for a few moments, to enjoy the feeling of being _wanted_ , before she pulls away and is met with the smiling blue eyes of her husband.

”Wife!” he says, with a dimpled smile that is so genuine she can’t help but smile back. ”Come hawking with me!” His hair is slicked back with sweat from sparring, and there is mud on his tunic.

”Now?” She laughs. ”I would need some time to get ready!”

”It’s Old Sam that’s saddling the horses so there’s plenty of time. Come to bed.”

She carefully extracts herself from his grip.

”Petyr wants to see me. And _you_ need a bath. I’ll meet you in the bailey in an hour.”

A quick peck on his cheek surprises him enough that she has time to dance away from his gripping hands and head down the stairs.

”One hour!” She hears him shout behind her, as though he was the one to set the time.

The encounter has made her giddy, and she is still in high spirits as she enters Petyr’s solar.

He does not seem pleased by this.

”There’s mud on your dress,” he says, by way of greeting.

Sansa looks down. Indeed there is some dried dirt clinging to her bodice, but she easily brushes it off with her hand.

”I was accosted by a filthy man. He wants me to go hawking with him.”

Petyr stands up from his desk, holding a folded piece of vellum.

”Does he, now.”

”I said yes.”

For a moment, she thinks he will be angry with her. But after a brief pause, he simply puts down the vellum and sits back down.

”I see. We’ll deal with this matter later, then. You shouldn’t let your husband wait.”

—

It is a wonderful day in the Vale. It’s still warm enough that Sansa only needs her light cloak of blue silk as they ride along with half the knights from the keep. The sun is still high in the clear sky, and though there are no proper woods near the Gates of the Moon, they pass ancient trees that are twisted by the wind, some heavy with the red rowan berries of autumn. There is plenty of game in the valley, though, and even Sansa catches a pair of pheasants with her peregrine falcon before they set down to rest in a small grove where the wind can’t reach them. Harry’s squire Mikkel sets a folding table with cheese, bread and fruit and those with fauldstools sit down, while the rest try to decide whose cloak should be sacrificed to sit on. Sansa sits next to Harry and contentedly sips sweet amber wine from her cup. There is a harp player she does not know the name of, but he plays sweetly. _Perhaps I could get used to this life_.

”It’s a shame we don’t have a singer,” says Harry suddenly.

Ben Coldwater looks up.

”Lord Robert isn’t here, though. Some singing couldn’t hurt,” he says. Then he turns his eyes to Sansa. ”I’ve heard you have a lovely singing voice, lady Sansa. Why don’t you sing us a song?”

Murmurs of agreement are heard from the rest of their retinue. Sansa’s first instinct is to refuse, but then, why shouldn’t she? _It’s been so long_.

”Yes, my lady, why don’t you sing us something merry?” Her husband takes her hand in his. ”Florian and Jonquil, perhaps?”

_Florian and Jonquil. A fool and his cunt_. The words enter her mind before she can make sense of them. _I’ll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said_. 

She realizes she’s brought her hand up to her throat.

”Lady Sansa?”

Ben Coldwater almost looks worried. Sansa feigns a small smile, and prays that no tears will come. 

”Of course I’ll sing! I was only trying to recall the words.”

Everyone seems to accept this, and some knights cheer her on. Taking a deep breath, Sansa begins to sing.

—

The gate in the outer wall stands open as it usually does when there is no direct threat to the keep. Inside, there are mostly fields and orchards before one reaches the keep proper, and the inner wall is heavily guarded.

Sansa reaches over in the saddle to put her hand on her husbands arm.

”Harry, dear, please ride on without me. I saw some lovely autumn flowers as we rode out, and I would like to pick some before I head back.”

Mikkel makes some jape about girls and their flowers, and Harry laughs before he answers.

”Of course, I’ll leave you with two guards.”

”Don’t be silly, there are guards on both walls. I shall be quite safe.”

Luckily, he does not press the issue. Sansa rides off and hopes dearly that she will find some flowers to bring back. But first she dismounts in an orchard and sits down on a fallen tree trunk. A slow panic has been building in her chest and throat ever since she sang, along with a desperate need to be alone.

She is being silly, of course, just a silly girl with silly dreams of silly memories. _After all this time, I am still just a stupid little bird_. Some things can only be pushed down for so long. A wave of memories hit her, so strong that she almost sways where she sits. Father’s head on a spike, the man with garlic breath and how the Hound slashed his arm clean off, the Hound in her bed, the Imp in her bed, Joffrey turning purple as he choked. And then there’s Petyr, Petyr _I only want what’s best for you, sweetling_ Petyr kissing her Petyr selling her to Harry, Harry in her bed, Harry in the bed of half the girls in the Vale…

Abandoning all dignity and propriety, Sansa Stark buries her face in her hands and starts to cry.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to update this once a week, but right now I'm at my summer house with sporadical internet access at best. But I'll do my best! And as always, thank you for reading!


	3. Sandor I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't proof read yet, because I didn't want it to be delayed. Please let me know if you find any errors.

Gulltown is thriving. The market at the docks is bustling with commerce and life even this early in the morning, and all the activity is enough to make Sandor tired just by looking at it. The closest anything ever got to ’bustling’ on the Quiet Isle was when the Brothers hurried to the refectory at supper. _Don’t these people know there’s a war going on?_ But then, of course, it’s Petyr Baelish who controls the trade in the Vale. It _would_ be thriving.

Sandor slowly leads Stranger from the ship onto the docks. Horses aren’t meant to travel by water, but it seemed the only option.

He decided on it yesterday, with the help of the Elder Brother. Traveling to Saltpans and find a ship to Gulltown to reach the Gates of the Moon from the Vale of Arryn is a much safer option than trying for the Bloody Gate. He may travel in the robes of a holy man, but people carry so much guilt in times of war that they’d rather not interact with voices of the Faith. He would in all likelihood be turned away.

Sandor walks cautiously through the docks, leading Stranger by the reins. He keeps an eye out for pickpockets, and even carries his saddlebags slung over one shoulder just to be safe. The sword that Elder Brother procured for him is still strapped to the saddle.

”I’m afraid you might need this,” the old man had said as they bid their farewells by the path of faith. Sandor had taken the sword and felt his arm be completed once more. Muscle memories demanded to be relevant again, and he immediately put the sword down. It’s almost frightening, how easily one could draw a weapon and start hacking, slashing, crushing. He’s not sure he dares remove it from the saddle again.

”I’ll bring her back here where it’s safe,” he’d said. ”If she’ll —” Sandor hadn’t said _if she’ll have me_ , but that didn't mean it wasn’t there. ”If she’s still a prisoner.”

”And if she’s not?” The Elder Brother had said with that hint of pity again.

”If she isn’t,” said Sandor, ”we’ll find out just how much of a fool I am”

—

If eyes are drawn to him as he rides the market road through Gulltown, he pretends not to notice. He still wears a scarf over his face, but his mere size is unusual enough that people will inevitably take notice. And Stranger… Though his caparison is long since discarded and there is rough hessian weave in its place, one must be unobservant indeed to take him for a draught- or cart horse. While the work horses on the street amble along slowly, Sandor’s heavy courser walks in an outline, one ear angled forward in curiosity and the other angled back in attentiveness to Sandor. Sandor tries in vain to give Stranger long reins in the hope that the horse’ll hang his head down, but to no avail. He paid a good deal of his winnings from the Hand’s Tourney for Stranger, and takes pride in the fine horse, but just for today he wishes he was just a little less well-trained. 

Well out of Gulltown, Sandor follows the Eyrie Road, which is broad and well-kept in case the lords and ladies of the Vale have a mind to travel into town. Without the road, it would have taken him the whole day to reach the Gates of the moon. As it is, he’ll be there a couple hours past noon. 

The sun is just starting to warm up the ground, and the night’s rains are slowly rising back into the sky in a fine mist. The road is lined with fern and hemlock, and if Sandor were a different man, he might call it pretty.

As it is, however, he simply rides on with his gaze locked ahead. He is still not certain why he is here, aside from the fact that he couldn’t _not_ be. In the blink of an eye he has forsaken what peace he’s found in the hope that… what, exactly?

_A dreadful thing, hope_. It shows up uninvited, where it has no right to be, slipping into every nook and cranny, all while it leaves the gates wide open for grief and despair. Men and women have walked into burning houses and children have thrown themselves into the arms of their ruin all because of the tiniest scrap of it. No plague or famine can boast to have claimed as many souls as hope has, and, knowing this, Sandor has spent years keeping it at bay. And yet without a warning, utterly without effort, a blue-eyed slip of a girl once broke through all his defenses and left him more vulnerable than he had ever been. If anything, that only fed the rage he'd lived with so long. But with it, hope brings a great and terrible _wanting_. Wanting a willing body intertwined with his, wanting red hair tangled in his bedsheets, wanting the sweetest of songs from plump red lips.

And, most shameful of all, all the other things he wants, the things he keeps locked away–

Sandor stops himself. Someone must.

There is no more mist in the air as midday has decidedly arrived. He is starting to get hungry, and Stranger has slowed his pace somewhat. Still, he is reluctant to stop. _She’ll still be there after you’ve eaten, dog_.

Sandor presses on until he can see the Giant’s Lance in the distance, with the towers of The Gates of the Moon at its base. The top of the mountain is hidden in the clouds, but snow reaches down all the way to the second waycastle, which is a dark spot against the side of the mountain. There are more trees here, and he finds a spot next to a grove in which he is safe from the cold mountain winds. He ties Stranger with long reins so that he can reach the grass, and sits down to eat the bread and cheese Elder Brother sent with him.

The old man had been reluctant to let him go, at first. Talk of repentance and _let the past die_ had been frequent, but Sandor paid no heed, which suddenly seems like an oversight on his part. Perhaps a little doubt might have been good. When Sandor had first been brought to the Isle, feverish, wounded and angry, he’d told the Elder Brother far more than he ought to about the little bird. How he’d _watch_ her, see her blush and laugh and cry and get beaten. He’d told the Elder Brother of the shame, of how he’d snap and bark and frighten her and pretend that was what he wanted to do. He had even, on a particularly bad day, told him of the night of the Blackwater. Even now, he recalled it as clearly as if he were still there, cowering in her bed, drunk on fear and Dornish sour. The bed had been as soft as he’d imagined it, all those times he’d dragged her out of it. The sheets were of linen and silk, and there were more pillows than anyone could possibly deem necessary. It had been strangely satisfying to invade her clean, ladylike space with his filth and blood. The pain and decay had always been there, just not in the physical form he brought.

And then there was what had come after, when she’d come back to her chambers in the night… The Elder Brother had said nothing to that, and Sandor had wished he would. And so he’d gone into more detail, told him of his she’d cupped his cheek as she sang, wanting Elder Brother to tell him _something_ , to say it meant something, that he hadn’t just frightened a child half to death that night.

He is fairly certain that was all he did, and perhaps it is for the best. He knows he is little more than a beast of a man, and little birds have little to do with hounds that doesn’t involve dying. 

Sandor’s thoughts are interrupted by something urgent, and he looks up.

There is singing.

As though his memory has sprung to life, a melody echoes dulcet through the trees. But this is a merry song and not a hymn, and the voice is a woman’s, deep and sure. Before he knows it, he has risen to his feet and is following the sound into the grove.

He still can’t quite believe this isn’t just some figment of his imagination, that there _is_ actually a woman singing, but he is compelled to follow nonetheless. Ahead, he can see the grove open up in a clearing, and, crouching, he creeps up between the trees.

The song is clearer now, and he can make out the words. _Florian and Jonquil_. It is enough to make him want to laugh, but he stops himself. He wants to see what is in that clearing.

As carefully as he can, creeps up and peers through the hemlock-leaves.

And is met with a sight that nearly makes his heart stop.

There _is_ a woman in the clearing. She is sat on a stool just where the sun breaks through the clouds, making her deep red hair glow in the light. She wears a blue silk cloak over a red velvet dress embroidered with golden leaves, and her eyes are as bright and blue as the sky and the quick waters of the Riverlands. The hemlock rises tall around her, and she sings as clearly as a nightingale.

_There you are, little bird_.

Slowly, Sandor realizes she is not alone in the clearing. Around her in the green grass are young knights, and their horses are tied up at the edge of the clearing. The little bird’s hand is clasped in those of a tall, blond knight, who looks about her age, perhaps a little older. He has a square jaw and strong arms, and he is looking at her as though she put the sun in the sky.

They look like a couple from one of those songs she loves so much.

The pretty little bird and her pretty husband, to whom she gladly sings. No somber hymns for this young man, no tears or frightened, bird-quick heartbeats. _This is the song you promised_ me _, little bird, have you forgotten?_ Perhaps she has. What use would she have of the memory of a vicious, feral dog who hid in her bed and pressed steel to her throat? _I saved her,_ he defends himself, _I killed a man for her_. 

He expects there to be anger. Instead, a draining wave of defeat crushes over him. So he wasn’t necessary, in the end. So all along she’s been safe here, protected by these fine young knights who are spellbound by her song.

Still, he cannot make himself leave. The song is ended, and pageboys are packing up for the retinue to leave. Sandor imagines he can see sorrow in the eyes of the little bird as she mounts her horse — with a coat the same deep red as her hair, was that on purpose? Did her husband give her that? — but thenof course, he wants it to be there. _If you wish the girl sorrow just so that you can take it away, you're just the same rabid dog as always. She’s suffered enough_. 

He stays behind the hemlock and watches the little bird leave with her handsome husband and their knights. Slowly, he creeps back to his horse, packs up his things, and rides off.

It’s not until he’s back out on the road that he realizes he is heading in the direction of the Gates of the Moon. Ahead, he can see the retinue amble along the road slowly. The pageboys in the back have falcon cages behind them on their horses.

They pass through the outer gate, and Sandor follows soon after, wondering how he’ll get back out again. Suddenly, the little bird rides away from her company without so much as a pageboy for a guard. The thought suddenly hits him that the outer gates might only have stood open for the hunting party, and now that they’re back, they might close any second. He looks back. He’d need to hurry. But when he urges Stranger forward, it’s after the little bird he’s heading.

She’s picked up her pace, her palfrey trotting through orchards and fields until finally, the sound of hooves falls silent behind a cluster of plum trees. He dismounts, and leaves Stranger behind so that he can approach quietly.

As he gets closer, however, he finds that there is little need for quiet. Peering out from behind large elder bushes, he finds the little bird sat on a fallen tree trunk, crying her eyes out. Loud, broken sobs escape her throat, and he knows the sound, has heard it before, but she was a child then. From the woman who sat singing to her faithful knights in the grove, it sounds terribly wrong. Inexplicably, the anger comes.

_Let her sit in her perfect world and cry. Damn woman will never be happy_.

He is being unfair, and surprises himself by feeling bad about it. The sobs rack her body, making her look terribly small and vulnerable. He looks behind him. He can’t see the gate from here. He turns back. She is all shivering shoulders and frail silk, and slowly, she lifts her head from her hands. She seems to be struggling to control her crying, focusing her gaze on her hands. For a second, he thinks she says something, and it sounds like _’stupid’_. She takes a deep breath.

”Shut up,” she mutters into her lap, and decisively wipes her cheeks with the back of her hands. It is such a childish gesture that he can’t help but chuckle. She freezes. Her hand reaches for something in her belt. _A knife,_ he realizes. That won’t do. Taking a deep breath, he lowers his hood, removes the scarf from his face, and steps out from behind the bush.

She hastily stands up, knife held high. Her eyes focus for a second, then go impossibly wide.

_”You!”_

”You’re holding that knife wrong, you know.”

She casts a frantic glance around her, and finds that they’re alone.

”A reverse grip is easy to turn on the wielder,” Sandor explains patiently. ”You should flip it around. Can you even use it?”

Her eyes dart to the knife and back to him.

”No,” she admits, lips barely moving.

”Then maybe you should put it down before you hurt yourself.”

Anger flares over her features, but she slowly lowers the knife.

”You’re dead.” It sounds almost like an accusation.

”It seems like I got better,” he answers, not knowing where his calm is coming from. ”How about you, little bird? You get better?”

She flinches at the pet name, and for some reason, that gives him comfort.

”How… Why are you here?”

”I found a little bird singing in a grove.”

He moves closer and sits down at the edge of the tree trunk, so that she has to look down on him. She’s always been tall, but now, she carries her height with a straight-backed pride. Her eyes are puffy from crying, and the tip of her nose is pink. He lowers his gaze to the ground.

”You’re acting strange,” she says.

”Says the little bird who went from singing to crying. How'd that come about?”

”That,” she says, and her voice is wavering, ”is no-one’s business but my own. You never answered my question. Why are you here?”

”I…” He trails off, unsure now that he’s found her. ”You don’t seem like you need it much, but there’s a place to the west. A safe place, if you need to go.”

She is quiet for so long that he looks up. He finds her _staring,_ eyes wide, at him. For a second, he worries that she might laugh at him. But she numbly sits down on the far end of the tree trunk. Such a proper little bird.

”You…” Her voice is hoarse. ”You came… for me?”

”Aye. That I did, little bird.” She gives him a look so filled with wonder that he is suddenly uncomfortable. ”It wasn’t that far.”

_That_ makes her chuckle. It’s a soft sound, deeper than he would have guessed.

”I didn’t want any harm to come to you.” It's all he can say that isn't tainted by old rage and regret.

”I’m afraid you’re a mite late for that. But I appreciate the gesture, all the same.” She absentmindedly picks a strand of grass and twirls it between her fingers. ”I cannot flee _another_ husband.”

_She’s turned you down again, dog,_ comes a cruel voice in his mind. But there is another, hopeful one, saying _so she_ wants _to flee this husband?_

”Right,” he says. ”The business with the Imp.” 

She flinches. He somehow keeps the bitterness at bay. 

”What will you do now?” She’s still twirling that strand of grass.

”I… I suppose I’ll stay, then. Not many places for me to go.” _We’ll find out just how much of a fool I am_.

”They’ll kill you.” She’s giving him that wide-eyed stare again.

”Perhaps.”

She gets up, and starts pacing.

”You cannot be serious.”

”I’ll stay. Perhaps you’ll change your mind.” Immediately, he wishes he could take the words back.  _Very much. I am very, very foolish_.

She stops, her stillness forcing him to meet her gaze again.

”You’re really not going?” she says, incredulous, but it sounds like _You’re really staying this time?_

”Not unless you want me to.” It seems only fair to give her a choice. She’s been denied so many.

But she doesn’t say _please, stay_. Instead, she says:

”I could get you in alive. But you’ll need to trust me.”

He cannot imagine what plan she’s come up with.

”All right.” _The biggest fool that ever lived_.

”Follow me, then.”

—

They ride into the Gates of the Moon without incident. Being in the company of the great lady Sansa Stark has apparently made him invisible as far as the guardsmen are concerned. It might also help that he’s put the scarf back to cover his face. The little bird instructs a tall, gangly stable girl with black hair to see to their horses, and she does so, but not without a suspicious glance at Sandor.

”It’s all right, Mya,” says the little bird. ”He’s got business in the keep.”

The stable girl is the only person to acknowledge him. He follows the little bird through corridors and up stairs, and she walks with such certainty in her steps that he can’t help but relax a little. He’s made it this far. Perhaps he’ll survive this day. She stops in front of a broad door, takes a deep breath, pushes it open and peeks inside.

”Sansa, sweetling! How good of you to come by.” It’s a voice Sandor recognizes, and it makes his thoughts go immediately to the sword that’s still strapped to his saddle.

The little bird smiles, pushes the door open wider and ushers him inside. Finding no other alternative, Sandor enters the room and finds himself face to face with Petyr Baelish.

”Hello, Petyr,” says Sansa Stark as she closes the door behind her. ”I’ve brought you something I thought you might find amusing.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's play my favourite game, Find the Sappy Tolkien Reference!!  
> (also, please let me know: is it too... mushy? i feel like it's maybe too mushy for Sandor)


	4. Sansa II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooooly crap this is dialogue heavy. Sorry about that.

She can _feel_ the rage radiate from him; she is sensitive to it. Facing Petyr, he stands as though he is ready to pounce at any moment, his grey eyes burning with that old anger she knows so well from King’s Landing.

_There you are, Hound_.

She could have brought him to Harry. Or, better yet, Lord Nestor. She could have easily pleaded for his life in front of the Lords Declarant and taken him under her protection. She could have done any of these things, but there is something about the way he acted in the orchard that has set her somewhat on edge. Like she needs to make sure it’s still him under those brown robes. And here he is: vibrating with fury, ready to strike. _Dangerous_. _This_ is who she remembers. _This is what I need from him_. 

”Sansa.” Petyr’s voice is so calm that he must be afraid. It amuses her. ”Where are the guards, Sansa?”

”Oh, there is no need for that,” she says cheerfully. ”He came willingly.”

”How?”

”I told him there were a dozen armed men lying in wait.”

Petyr is apparently still shocked enough that he accepts that.

”Why is he dressed like a Silent Brother?”

”Killed a holy man outside Gulltown,” comes that voice, sharp: metal rasping against stone. _Yes_.

”The point,” says Sansa, and somehow keeps her eyes on Petyr, ”is that he’s here.”

”Yes, that much I can tell. What do you want me to _do_ with him?”

She looks at Sandor Clegane, and pretends to contemplate his fate.

”I don’t know,” she says, turning back to Petyr. ”I thought _you’d_ know the best course of action.”

Petyr sighs, and leans on the edge of the table, looking very inconvenienced and slightly bored. But Sansa can see that he never lets his eyes leave the Hound.

”I suppose we’ll have to kill him, then,” he says, and something in Sansa freezes.

”I suppose that would be wise,” she says. ”He was the Lannister’s dog, after all. And he betrayed even them. How would it look if he were found here?”

Petyr pauses, and gives the Hound a measuring look.

”Yes,” he says, a sly grin on his lips, ”how _would_ it look? You were quite right, Sansa dear, I _do_ find this amusing.”

”Oh?”

”Now that word is no doubt out that you are here, how about we add one more to my collection? Yes, Cersei,” he says, mostly to himself, ”I took even _this_ one from you.”

”Oh, I see what you mean!” Sansa is deeply unsettled by being referred to as part of Petyr’s _collection_ , but she stows that away for another day. ”And it would be a waste to kill such a skilled warrior. I saw him cut a man’s arm clean off once.”

There is a sudden movement beside her, and already on edge, Sansa turns towards the Hound. But he’s only turned to look at her.

”Skilled, yes,” says Petyr. ”But he’s damaged now.” He gestures to the Hound’s leg, and _now_ she sees it. He is putting most of his weight on one leg. It’s part of what’s made him unfamiliar to her, where before he _stalked,_ he followed her through the keep with a slightly odd gait before. He has a limp.

”I’m no cripple,” he rasps, still furious. The burnt side of his mouth _twitches_. She forgot about that. Though his anger still frightens her somewhat, it fascinates Sansa. Lately, she's found even quarreling exhausting. Where can he possibly find the energy for such rage? She recalls clearly how intensely his anger would seethe just beneath the surface, poorly concealed and threatening to burst out at any moment.

”Sansa?”

Abruptly, she is pulled from her thoughts.

”Yes?”

”I said, where do we put him?”

”I’ll take him.” She answers without hesitation.

Petyr raises an eyebrow.

”Perhaps we’ll just put him in the household guard. I don’t trust you with such a brute.”

”He served Joff for _years_. I think he has enough self-restraint to behave. And,” she continues, feeling particularly clever, ”like you said, word has spread of my whereabouts. I’ll need protection before long.”

”Very well.” Petyr turns towards the Hound. ”Does this seem like an agreeable arrangement?”

The Hound only nods, looking slightly dazed. Petyr continues:

”The Hound served the Lannisters. You’ll be known as ’Clegane’ here. There’s no need to look so grim, you’re not our prisoner. Actually, keep the grimness. Sends the right signals.” He turns back to Sansa. ”What if your husband objects to this?”

”What does Harry care who guards me? I doubt he’ll notice.” Unbidden, bitterness has crept into her voice.

Petyr studies her for several moments before he speaks.

”The boy loves you, you know.”

It’s such an absurd statement that Sansa can’t help but laugh.

” _The boy_ loves every half-pretty girl that smiles at him when he’s in the mood.”

There is a trace of sadness in Petyr’s face, and it frightens her for some reason she cannot discern. He walks over to her, and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, almost tenderly.

”I did not train you to be bitter, Alayne.”

He’s the only one who still uses that name. It’s become a pet name, of sorts, but he usually only uses it when he needs her to remember how she got here. Now, he is just confusing. And far too close.

”No. You trained me to survive, _father.”_ _That_ reminder seems necessary. He steps back.

”See that your new sword is properly equipped. I doubt there is armor that fits him, but with any luck, he won’t need it for some time yet. There’s that hauberk that was too big for Brune, though. See if it fits.”

Sansa can tell she is being dismissed, and so she gestures to the Hou— _Clegane_ to follow her as she leaves. Well outside, she closes the door firmly.

_”Father?”_

He is staring at her. She sighs. 

”It’s a long story.” Smoothing down her skirts, she takes a deep breath. ”So, _Clegane_. You can still run away if you want to. But as soon as word gets out you’re here, I won’t be able to get you out. You’re not exactly—” she eyes him from head to toe ”—inconspicuous.”

Finding his eyes with hers, she realizes he’s taken the moment to eye her right back. She is inexplicably pleased by this.

”Take me to the armory,” he rasps, to her relief.

—

”I imagine we’ll need to make a schedule and assign you chambers later,” she says as they cross the bailey on their way to the armory.She keeps her pace deliberately slow, not sure how extensive the damage to his leg is. He walks behind her and slightly to the side, so that she’ll catch a glimpse of him in the corner of her eye now and then, but she refuses to turn to look at him.

”I imagine we will, lady Hardyng.”

She is suddenly cold. Without a word, she stops abruptly, and to her satisfaction hears him stumble in his haste to stop. Slowly, she turns to face him.

”None of that, please.” The _’please’_ is just for show. She is giving an order. ”I am still a Stark. They could not take that from me, at least.”

With that, she resumes walking in silence, quickening her pace out of spite. _I am still a Stark. Not a Hardyng, not a Lannister_. Her first marriage was annulled with little trouble. Since she bore the Imp no children, there was no proof that the marriage had ever been consummated. The mere thought of the Imp in her bed still makes Sansa shiver. She wishes she could have remained standing in the sept on their wedding, straight-backed and proud, and walked out when her husband-to-be had proved incapable of cloaking her. Just walked, slowly, never to turn back. She is a Stark.

_And then came Harry_. _He_ had been capable enough to cloak her, stepping on her discarded maiden cloak in the process. Sansa had _begged_ Petyr to convince Harry and the Waynwoods to allow her to keep her name. The night before her wedding, she had cried and thrown her arms around his neck in desperation, until finally, he agreed to speak with Harry. _The Northern lords would never reclaim their home in the name of a Hardyng_. Last-minute changes to the wedding contract were made, and Sansa had gone to sleep, red-eyed but somewhat calmed.

They find the armorer, Malrik, who at first balks when he sees the size of Sansa’s new guard, but agrees to make him proper plate armor. For now, he goes to find the hauberk Petyr mentioned.

Sansa and Clegane have still not spoken a word to each other since the bailey. They stand in awkward silence and this is, of course, when Harry enters with Mikkel.

”Wife!” He shouts his usual greeting. ”How strange to find you down here!” For the second time today, he looks genuinely happy to see her.

_The boy loves you_ —

He saunters over and kisses her forehead. That’s when he sees the hulking frame of Sandor Clegane in the shadows behind her, and he gives a shout in surprise. Sansa keeps herself from laughing.

”I came down here to find equipment for my new shield! Harry, this is Sandor Clegane.”

If her husband’s surprise was amusing before, _now_ it’s hilarious. _He looks rather toad-like, with his eyes bulging like that_. He puts his hands on her shoulders and leans in close.

_”Clegane?”_ he whisper-shouts. ”Sansa, I left you _two hours_ ago because you were going to pick _flowers_. Now you’re here with a _Clegane?_ That’s it. You’re never leaving without a guard again.”

_The boy loves you_ —

_”He is_ my guard. I thought you’d be pleased.”

”Found it, m’lady!” Malrik has returned. ”If this doesn’t fit I can’t help you today. Oh, good day, ser Harrold.”

”Good, good.” Sansa smiles at her husband and squeezes his hands softly as she removes them from her shoulders. ”Clegane, try it on.”

It does fit. It’s open in the front, with ornamented hook-and-eye fastenings. The mail is covered in the back and front with blue fabric, giving the illusion of a sleeveless tunic worn over the hauberk. Clegane turns around, testing his movement, and Sansa sees there is a large mockingbird embroidered on the back.

”That won’t do,” she says, mostly to herself.

”What? It’s good mail.” Clegane looks at her, perplexed.

”There’s a bird on your back. The wrong kind,” she adds, smiling a little. ”Give it to me, I’ll see to it that you’ll wear the proper sigil.”

Harry says nothing beside her. He knows it’s not _his_ sigil she speaks of. However her husband expected his life to be, Sansa would bet it did not involve being married to a more influential wife. And she will do anything in her power to keep it that way. _My Sweetrobin will live, and marry, and House Arryn will remain Lords of the Vale_. It is not that she thinks Harry would make an insufficient lord. Between her cousin and husband, there is really no good alternative. But since she is given the opportunity, she can’t see why she shouldn’t thwart one of Petyr’s carefully laid plans. It’s all she can do to entertain herself in this endless wait for winter and spring. One must be resourceful.

Clegane has removed his outer robes to try on the hauberk, and through his thin tunic, she can see the muscles in his back move as he removes the mail. It is oddly captivating.

He clumsily half-folds the hauberk and dumps it in her outstretched arms. Her eyes widen at the weight of it, but she soon collects herself, determined not to let anyone see how she struggles to carry it. Harry must have noticed, though, because he takes it from her arms almost immediately.

”Let me carry that, my lady. I’ll put it in our chambers for now.”

He kisses her cheek and then he’s off, having apparently decided that it is no use arguing over her new guard. He’ll no doubt question every servant on the way about Sandor Clegane. Sansa turns back to Clegane and realizes she’s smiling. Even though she often resents Harry for no other reason than being her husband, more often than not, he leaves her in higher spirits than he found her in.

—

They find the quartermaster and install Clegane in chambers at the base of Falcon Tower. He shan’t be disturbed much here, since all Winged Knights save the married ones are housed in the East Tower, and the servant’s quarters are in the main keep. 

”There’s just me and Harry at the top. And Maddy above you, of course, but she’s as quiet as a mouse.”

”A mouse, a bird, and a dog in the tower. What’s your husband, then?”

”Harry’s a falcon, of course. Even though he acts like an ass most of the time.”

He says nothing to that, only excuses himself to see that his horse is properly taken care of.

Sansa looks after him as he leaves, an odd feeling in her chest. It should feel strange, of course, to have him with her in this of all places. But his presence fell in behind her as natural as anything as she showed him around the keep earlier. _Perhaps I’ve been feeling unsafe, I just didn’t know it. Yes, that must be it_.

She climbs the stairs and enters her chambers, only to find Harry waiting for her inside.

”Will you explain yourself, or shall I need to ask Littlefinger? I do dislike that man quite a bit.”

Sansa’s first reaction is indignant anger, but then, her husband deserves to know when she includes a new guard in their household. _Their_ household. She sighs, and sits down on one of the spindly chairs by their breakfast table.

”I found him outside, and brought him in to offer him work. He’s a very skilled warrior.”

”You ’found him outside’? And just like that, you trust him?” He is pacing the room, but she refuses to be baited.

”Of course I trust him,” she says calmly, with a certainty she doesn’t feel. ”I know him from King’s Landing. He saved my life.”

”Oh he did, did he?” Harry is _laughing_ , a sharp, angry sound. ”Did you prick your finger on an embroidery needle? Did your dress chest burst and _drown_ you in summer silk—”

_Bam!_

He is interrupted by the sound of Sansa’s palm hitting the table with such force that she can feel the pain radiate all the way up to her shoulder. But she pays no heed. All these months, and her time in King’s Landing has never come up. Harry never asked. Harry never asks _anything_ about her.

”Has it somehow escaped your notice,” she says, deadly calm, ”that I was a prisoner of the crown? What, did you think the queen kept me there to join her needlework circle? Where in all seven HELLS did you think the scars on my back and legs came from?” Distantly, she is shocked by how her voice reverberates in the chamber. She is apparently standing up, now, and Harry is staring at her, his mouth a thin line and his eyes wide. ”Yes, Sandor Clegane saved my life. When the mob almost dragged me from my horse he was there to save me. When I was stripped and beaten in front of the _entire court,_ it was he that gave me his cloak to cover me. When I almost fell from the battlements, he caught me. He even offered—”

Even in her rage, she manages to stop herself. She can feel hot tears on her cheeks as she sinks back into her chair.

”I trust him,” she says. ”I trust him,” she repeats, mostly to herself. _How odd_. She looks up at Harry, who hasn’t moved. _A lady’s courtesy is her armor,_ she thinks. _I never meant for you to see me this naked_. She closes her eyes and wants to sigh, but instead sharp, loud sobs rack her body. _It seems I am doomed to cry in front of audiences today_.

Time stops them like that, for a while. Sansa crying. Harry staring. She expects him to leave. She _wants_ him to leave. When nothing happens, she takes several deep breaths to calm herself before she looks up at him.

”I am sorry for the outburst,” she sniffs. ”But I stand by my sentiment.”

There is something soft in his features that’s usually only there late in the night as their fire burns low, when they lie warm and sated and wait for sleep to come. She will blame it on the moonlight those nights, or how she knows she looks her best with her hair loose and wild about her shoulders. But her hair is tied up today, and the moon is not yet visible in the sky.

”I didn’t know.” His voice is very quiet. ”I’m sorry.”

She wants to say _you could have asked,_ but the novelty of hearing remorse from his lips prevent her. And so she manages a small, tired smile for him, and welcomes him when he comes close to stroke her hair. She allows him to carry her to bed, and sighs contentedly when he kisses her bare shoulders as her gown comes off.

Later, when the white moonlight turns the room silver grey and Harry snores softly beside her, she wonders if she should feel ashamed for shouting at her husband. She wonders if this is how all married couples resolve their quarrels. She wouldn’t know, because she and lord Tyrion never quarreled, nor did they share their marriage bed.

_We never did set up a schedule for Clegane,_ she realizes suddenly. He must think her a terribly sloppy employer. But then, it’s Petyr who pays him, so perhaps she is not his employer after all. Wrapping a quilt around her bare body, she creeps out of bed and pads quietly into their adjoining solar. The hauberk hangs over a chair, and she finds her sewing box neatly tucked in her cedar chest. Pulling out a piece of knotted thread, she starts measuring.

 

 

 

 


	5. Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clear a few things up: Sansa is aged up, and so I've taken some liberties with how much time has passed. I think technically winter should already be here at this point, but since GRRM can't math himself I don't feel too bad about it. Basically, I've jumped ahead on most character development arches.

A girl creeps up behind the barrels at the base of the grey stone steps. She pushes a heap of old fishing nets to the side to get a clear view, and notices there is blood on her plain brown sleeve. It is not hers, but it could prove a problem later, when Izembaro’s body festers and bloats and floats up to the canal surface. She shakes her head. That was done by someone else’s hand. Mercy has been shed, and now a girl has no name.

  
The leather pouch rests heavy on her thigh. It’s filled with coin, which a girl is not allowed, for the journey across the narrow sea. A girl has been strictly forbidden to leave the city, particularly now, so naturally, a girl cannot stay. She is ready.

  
The ninth night of the Unmasking keeps most people from these parts of the docks. There is water dancing on the Moon Pool tonight, and some say the Third Sword will be there to accept challengers. A girl wishes she could go. When a girl was Mercy, she would sneak out some nights and watch the duelers, as did Cat of the Canals. A thrill goes through her as she realizes she could be challenged tonight, on her way to Ragman’s Harbor. Any Braavosi with a sword can be challenged, and as long as a girl does not speak, she could be any Braavosi.

  
Through the fog, she can just make out the black-and-white doors at the top of the stone steps. They are closed. This tells her nothing. But she knows this masked night is too good of an opportunity to pass up. What better way to receive the Gift, than on a night of revels, and come masked and hidden in front of the gods? A girl thinks almost longingly of the Gift these days, and perhaps it frightens her.

  
No.

  
A girl knows no fear.

  
A hand goes up to reassure herself that her black velvet mask is still in place. It was stolen by Mercy, from the room of costumes at the Gate. As silent as a shadow, she crawls out from behind the barrels. Wiry limbs climb the rocks beside the stone steps, until — there!

  
Dirty fingers find the crack, brushes away the dirt and rubble, and reaches inside.

  
Arya Stark’s hand shakes as she pulls Needle out by the handle. The strong, castle-forged steel is grey with years of dust, and slowly, almost reverently, she brushes the blade with her fingers. The man who forged the sword was a master blacksmith. That man is now dead.

  
She casts one final glance up at the House of Black and White, almost regretfully, before she turns around and walks down the steps, back straight. There is a ship waiting in Ragman’s Harbor. It is time. Through ale halls and sealed letters and hushed whispers, word has reached even Braavos: Sansa Stark has been found.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have an interlude!  
> Next regular chapter will be up in a day or two, since I know that's what you're all really here for :)  
> And again, a thank you to all you wonderful people who leave kudos and comments, you're what keeps the word machine going :)


	6. Sandor II

Sandor is at a loss. Out of all the possible outcomes he could have predicted for his journey, _this_ was not one of them.

That first day he had spent an hour in the stable after the little bird had shown him around. Stranger was familiar. Stranger, he understood. He understood how to bark orders at stable hands to make sure that his horse’s needs were properly seen to. After that, he got his first lesson in why he should not approach the Lady Stark and Ser Hardyng’s chamber door in the evenings.

Under the impression he was to be assigned a schedule, he had, after some inner debating back and forth, climbed the stairs to find the lady. Only to freeze outside.

The _noises_.

Back when Robert Baratheon was alive, Sandor was sometimes assigned guard duty outside the royal chambers. White cloaks meant more back then, and it would have been unseemly to let a Kingsguard listen to the King’s depravities. Sandor, however, had been nothing but a second son of a landed knight, and was already as unseemly as they come. Nothing, not even the sound of skulls cracking is worse than listening to a fat, drunken man try to impress five young girls he has to pay to be there.

Or so Sandor had thought.

_Not such a proper little bird when the sun comes down, I see_ , he’d thought. It sounded nothing like the bright pretend enthusiasm of whores, but he is sure no lady would make such sounds as the little bird was in earnest. Fairly certain, at least. Sandor wouldn’t know. _He’s_ never made a woman sound like that.

He had wondered, briefly, if that was how Jamie Lannister felt when… He’d pushed the thought aside, sickened.

Sandor had gone to bed that first night in the Vale, entirely convinced that in staying, he had made the biggest mistake of his life.

—

She is not making this easier. Every morning as he knocks on her chamber door, she greets him with a smile. Sansa Stark. Smiling at him. The world has gone mad. He has started to fortify himself before he knocks, his fist hovering over the wood, thinking _she was trained for this, it’s what ladies do, they smile and chit-chat and sing and drive me bleeding_ insane.

He knocks.

The maid, Maddy, lets him in. The little bird sits by the window as she so often does, looking out, but she turns at his entrance. Smiles.

”Good morning, Clegane.”

Try as he might, he cannot recall anyone ever looking happy to see him before. She holds her usual steaming cup in her hands. He nods towards it.

”Does your husband know you drink that?”

Her face falls. Tully-blue eyes dart from him, to the cup, and back.

”I didn’t…” She stammers. ”I didn’t realize you knew— I…”

”I _have_ been to Chataya’s, you know.”

She tilts her head in a particularly bird-like way, confused. _Shit,_ he realizes. _She wouldn’t know about Chataya’s_.

”I know Moon Tea when I smell it, is what I’m saying,” he says, perhaps too quickly.

She cradles the cup almost protectively in her hands. 

”Please don’t tell him.”

He looks at her for a moment, nods, and wonders how long he can keep this up for. In King’s Landing, he had kept out of the courtly cesspool of lies and secrets merely by his low birth and lack of political ambition. It had been a simple life, up until Jon Arryn got himself murdered and everything went to shit.

And now here he is, keeping Sansa Stark’s secrets from her husband. It’s a strange little world she’s woven around herself. In some ways, she is clearly thriving. She’s got that straight-backed pride, that certainty in her voice, and that dancing amusement in her eyes as she’s making a jape at the expense of her husband, who only sometimes catches on. But there is also a calm in her manners that is very deliberate, like how she breathes deeply when Littlefinger touches her hair or kisses her cheek. Sandor is _not_ happy about having to attend the meetings between the little bird and the former Master of Coin. But she seems to want him there. _Who is it really that you need protection from, little bird?_ The twists and turns their words take, the double meanings that he knows are there but can’t put his finger on — it reminds him of the capital. She has told him some of how she ended up in the Vale, of playing the part of Littlefinger’s bastard, and the thought of her with muddy dye in her hair and having to pretend to be the daughter of that degenerate… it makes his blood boil.

”Oh!” She says suddenly. ”I have something for you! Maddy, if you would.”

The dark-haired maid goes immediately to open a wooden chest at the other end of the room, and before Sandor knows it, she is holding up the hauberk from the armory for him to inspect.

Instead of the blue fabric, it is now bare, plain mail, with nothing but the ornamented hook-and-eye fastenings for decoration. He accepts it numbly and puts it on. The little bird has gotten up, to inspect him, he assumes, but he can’t see why that would be necessary. Then he notices there is something in her arms, a bundle of black fabric that she unfolds and shakes out.

The tunic is longer than any he’s ever owned, the kind he remembers Eddard Stark’s men wear, of fine wool that should reach just below his knees. He just has time to notice the cap sleeves embroidered in silver before she turns it around proudly, to show the back.

The direwolf sigil is a little lighter than he remembers it, almost silver white, with a yellow eye embroidered in gold thread. He wants to reach out and touch it, but stops himself.

”There,” says the little bird eagerly, ”see if it fits!”

It does fit. Pretending to smooth it down, he runs his fingers over the silver embroidery running down the front.

”Never thought I’d be one of the Stark men,” he says, before he realizes his mistake.

Her face falls.

”You’d be the _only_ Stark man, as far as I know.”

He knows she is remembering, just as he is, the slaughter of the Stark household in the Red Keep. The slaughter he took part in.

”Little bird—”

”Oh!” She exclaims, pulling a pair of spring scissors from her belt. ”Stand still.”

She hurries over and cuts off a minuscule piece of silver thread hanging loose from the embroidery in the front. He almost feels sorry for the seamstress who made it, to be under the employ of such a meticulous lady. Long, pale fingers skim over his chest, poking and prodding at the precise stitches. Sandor stands very still. Her face is just below his own, but she is so absorbed in the embroidery that she doesn’t seem to notice. In King’s Landing, it was always he who touched her, whether he was wiping blood from her lip or harshly making her look at him. Touching her was never something he doubted. She was a child, then, and he was doing as he was bid. _Most of the time, anyway_. But to have her _now,_ a woman grown, touch him as though she’s never given it a second thought— his chest burns where he can feel her touch even through the mail. Uncertain, he casts a quick glance at Maddy, who has busied herself with clearing off the table as if nothing were amiss. He lets his gaze wander around the room, keeping his breathing even, until he can feel her _opening_ _the fastenings_. He looks down, horrified. No lady has ever accosted him like this. She is cutting off another loose thread on the inner side of the tunic, and that’s when he realizes. He’s seen that look before, that focused, critical inspection. It’s how blacksmiths look when they inspect a new blade, and how the cooks in the Red Keep looked when they oversaw the maids placing out their dishes. _She made this_.

The spell is broken when she looks up, just in passing, but finds his eyes staring down at her, inches away. Colour creeps into her cheeks as she backs away.

”It’s, um…” She stammers, looking at her hands. It’s fascinating. ”It’s not exactly my house colours, but I prefer— I mean, I’d rather not have you in white again.”

Slowly, the meaning of her words sink in.

”Never suited me, anyway,” he says. ”This is… good craftsmanship, my lady.”

He is not certain the term applies; he knows little about textile work. But even Sandor can tell from the soft fabric and even stitches that he has never owned anything so fine in his life. Forgetting himself, he runs a calloused hand down his thigh, enjoying the feel of the soft fabric over the mail.

”You look… Stately,” she says, giving him an odd look. ”Very Northern.”

_Northern?_ The thought has never occurred to him before. Perhaps she is right. He does have grey eyes and black hair, but aside from that there isn’t much of his face that isn’t ruined. From her, he assumes it is a compliment. He has no idea how to respond to that.

”My parents were as Southron as they come.”

”You know, it’s strange,” she says. ”I’ve never thought about you having parents before.”

—

His new Stark livery earns him some stares around the keep. _And they were just getting used to my face, too_. Some glare openly, like a pair of young Winged Knights he does not know the name of. Old Nestor Royce only does a double take and gives him a nod of acknowledgement, with something like a smile under his beard. The first person to comment on it openly is the lady Royce, who does so over a game of cyvasse with the little bird.

”Really, Sansa,” huffs the buxom young woman, ”one would think you were deliberately trying to offend poor Harry.”

The little bird raises an eyebrow and moves a jade dragon piece.

”When we were betrothed, Harry never let me forget I was a bastard. ’Count yourself lucky, Alayne. If I’d said no, you’d be sent off to some goat farmer,’ he would say. I really don’t feel sorry if I offend him by being highborn.”

”He was only jesting, you must know that!”

”Yes, just as I was jesting when I pointed out he’s never learned High Valyrian, and you know how well he took _that.”_

Sandor doesn’t know. He’s not sure he wants to. He leans against the doorframe and pretends to look out the window, much like the young Waynwood girl who follows lady Royce everywhere. The ladies pay him no heed.

”Well, surely he has _other_ qualities, to make up for his lack of humor?”

”Randa!” The little bird has turned pink around the ears. Sandor wants to walk out the door. And keep walking.

Perhaps to the Wall.

_”I_ spoke with one of the maids from Ironoaks, and _she_ said this Cissy girl, the one with his bastard, had told _her_ he was _very_ skilled with—”

”Yes, yes, ask any pretty serving maid and I’m sure they’ll tell you the same.”

”He’s not like that anymore, you must know that! Isn't that right, Alys?” Lady Royce turns to the Waynwood girl, who looks about as comfortable as Sandor feels right now. ”Well, only when he’s been drinking, anyway, and you can hardly fault a man for that. If we were to hold men responsible for everything they did drunk there’d be no time for anything else!”

”Perhaps men should stop drinking, then.”

The little bird’s tone is such that even the lady Royce keeps her mouth shut for a while.

By now, Sandor knows far more of the little bird’s marriage than he’d like. And he is utterly confused. She does not love her husband, that much is clear, yet she wants him to stay true to her. _He_ loves his wife, if Littlefinger is to be trusted, yet he won’t stay true to her. Sandor knows little of love and its side-effects, and this only makes him more baffled by the entire concept.

And yet…

The boy, Ser Harrold, shines with that dimpled smile every time he sees the little bird, and while she does smile back, it’s the smile he remembers from King’s Landing. _Not the one she greets_ you _with every morning, dog_. He remembers the way she laughed in disbelief when Littlefinger told her ser Harrold loved her, and, well. _Just as you used to snarl and bite when they expected you to, this boy fell in love with a woman who has resigned herself to a loveless marriage. And so he provides_. 

—

”Would you agree, Clegane, that men cannot be held responsible for their actions when they’ve been drinking?”

They’re walking through the lower glass gardens, the little bird inspecting the progress of her winter roses. Apparently the ever-so-generous Littlefinger had the seeds imported for her nameday. The man seems to constantly shower her with lavish gifts, but Sandor has seen the wariness in her smile as she accepts them. _Clever little bird knows the price of things these days._

”I suppose,” he says, mostly to say _something_.

The little bird is quiet for a while.

”Tell me, how many times have you fought sober, Clegane?”

”Rarely,” he answers weakly, wary of where she is heading with this. Before the Quiet Isle, he did few things at all sober.

”So really, your reputation as a warrior is worthless?”

”I…” He trails off. There is no answer to that.

”Or,” she says, not turning around, ”is that just an excuse men use for the pain they cause with the help of strongwine?”

He says nothing. They walk in silence for a while, and he cannot help but notice how her hands shake as she strokes the frail leaves of her roses. It feels inevitable, then, when she says what has been on both their minds since the moment he got here.

”That night, when the Blackwater burned…” She turns around, now, and he can’t even bring himself to meet her eye. ”Am I to assume you are not to be held responsible?”

He wishes his voice could be steady when he answers, but wishes have never gotten him anywhere in life. Not that he ever learns.

”Trust me, little bird. I _wish_ I wasn’t responsible.”

She does that odd head tilt. Her expression is unreadable.

”Do you wish that about… _everything_ you did?”

Sandor feels very trapped. He tries desperately to rack his mind for the events of that night which he has reenacted over and over again in his mind, and naturally comes up blank.

She seems to interpret his silence as agreement, because she says, to his utter confusion:

”Then why kiss me?”

”I— What? When?”

She huffs in exasperation and explains, very slowly, as though he were a child.

”That night. You made me sing and you kissed me and then you left.”

He stares at her. _What?_

”I never kissed you, little bird.”

”Yes, you did.” She is very insistent. ”And then you ripped off your cloak.”

The cloak he remembers. That cursed piece of cloth was meant to give the illusion of chivalry. Even after deserting, he’d kept it. There is no shame in running from fire, only common sense. But after what he did, after pressing cold steel to her throat and forcing her to sing— wearing it after that seemed impossible. He’d already given it to her once before, when she lay shivering and bare on the throne room floor. _Four times now, a man has given her a cloak,_ he thinks. And two of those times, it was from him. He does not dwell on that thought.

”I left the cloak, yes, but I never kissed you. I would have remembered that.” The last bit slips out before he can stop himself, but she doesn’t seem to react.

”You were very drunk, though,” she points out.

_Not as drunk as I’d like to think._

”I recall the rest well enough.”

He can _feel_ her eyes on him, studying his face, searching for something, perhaps. The ruined side of his face tingles as her eyes sweep over it, and linger on his mouth.

”How strange,” she says, almost to herself, still studying his lips.

_Strange little bird_. He cannot fathom why she would spin such a story from what in truth must have frightened her half to death. _But then, did_ you _not tell yourself a little story every day, dog? A story of a brave man and the maid who gladly sung him a song_. He even _lied_ to the wolf-bitch, telling her the song was freely given out of gratitude. _And then you lied again, when you wanted her to gift you with mercy_ … 

And there’s that anger again, that old rage he reserves for his own mistakes, sweeping through him like wildfire. It must have shown in his features, because the little bird shies back from him suddenly, a flash of fear in her eyes. Abruptly, she turns to resume her tour of the glass garden.

He wants to explain, to apologize for frightening her now and all those times before, but he never did learn the right words for that, and she is already leaving him behind.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, dealt with the UnKiss.  
> Jk, it'll come up again.  
> Again, thank you all for reading and kudos-ing and commenting! <3


	7. Sansa III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... Y'all remember that ~~chechov's gun~~ piece of vellum Petyr was waving around back in chapter 1?? No? Okay.

She feels the bed dip behind her as her husband climbs in. She’s been in bed for at least an hour by now, trying fruitlessly to tame her confused rumble of thoughts in the dark.

Sandor never kissed her.

_He was drunk,_ she reminds herself, _he forgot about it_. But just as she reminded him of that fact earlier in the glass gardens, she suddenly realized she had been drunk as well. The Queen. The wine. How her head spun that night, how everything seemed to happen in such tight spaces. She’s always blamed the fear for that.

An arm pulls her back, and she turns around and into a slow kiss that she would have enjoyed had her mind not been preoccupied. Broad hands roam her back and tug at hems, and it’s a dance she’s so used to by now that her hips lift by themselves and her arms stretch above her head, and suddenly, she finds herself bare.

He hums his appreciation against her skin as she tugs at the laces of his nightshirt. She prefers it like this, in the dark, for reasons she’d rather not dwell upon. His arm is around her waist now, the other reaching down towards her buttocks. She gasps when he nibbles at the base of her throat, and encouraged, he licks a line from her collarbone up to her jaw.

She freezes. Sudden hesitation tells her he’s noticed. Cursing herself for letting her repulsion show, she tries to relax her body, make it pliant once more.

”What is it?”

She can just make out the shape of his face in the faint moonlight that seeps in between the closed shutters. _A lady’s courtesy is her armor,_ she thinks. _Please your husband_.

”Please don’t do that,” she says.

”You _like_ it when I do that.” He’s drawn back, and there is irritation in his voice. _Has he never been denied a thing in his life?_

Sansa doesn’t answer. She doesn’t know how to tell him she’s _never_ liked it, because he’s never done it before. _That’s odd,_ she thinks, until it slowly dawns on her—

_”Saffron_ always likes it when—” He stops himself.

Sansa feels suddenly ill.

They lie still for several moments, neither daring to speak now that this previously invisible bridge has been crossed. Then, a rustling of sheets as he lifts his arm and reaches towards her.

”Sansa, I—”

He cups her cheek clumsily in the dark. She pulls away.

”Please don’t touch me.”

It is to his credit that he acquiesces. It is not to hers that she never expected him to.

_Oh, Harry. I’d rather you were cruel._ She doesn’t mean that. She crawls out from under the covers and her skin prickles from the chill in the room. Curling into a ball at the very edge of their extravagant bed, she pretends to slowly fall asleep.

—

She wakes thoroughly tucked under the blankets. Both shutters are opened wide, so that she can see the blue sky and the side of the Giant’s Lance from where she’s lying in bed. Just as she likes it in the mornings.

Holding her breath and listening, she decides she is alone in the room, and slowly sits up. Maddy has already been here: a morning meal has been set out for her on the table, and her cup of moon tea is still steaming. With no desire to call her maid back to dress her, Sansa envelops herself in an airy silk robe that feels like it’s floating around her limbs. A gift from Petyr, of course.

Slowly, she drags herself to her high-backed chair by the window, not even touching the meal or the tea. She pulls her knees up under her chin and looks down at the world below her window.

When the knock comes, the cup is no longer steaming.

”Enter.” She hates how weak her voice sounds. She can hear the door open and his heavy steps, but they stop before the door is closed.

”Should I come back later?”

To hear such confusion in his rasp of a voice should have made her smile, but she only turns her head to face him, slowly.

”No. Please come in.”

He casts a glance down the corridor before he enters and closes the door behind him. Strangely, the mere sight of him calms her. He is larger than any man in her father’s household guard was, but he wears the Northern tunic she made him, and that is enough. She sweeps her gaze over the embroidered front.

”Could you turn around?”

He furrows his brow but does as he is bid. _Hello, Lady_. She made the sigil lighter on purpose, remembering her direwolf that never even got a chance to protect her. Sometimes she still catches herself looking down and feel the loss when Lady is not by her side. She sighs.

”Your wolf still there?”

If she didn’t know better she’d think he was making a jape. _How conceited I must seem, to keep admiring my own work like this_.

”I’m sorry,” she says out of habit, ”you may turn around again.”

Again, he does as he is bid. Reluctantly, she thinks of what today has in store for her.

”I will be summoned to council today,” she informs him. ”You’ll accompany me. There are… important matters to discuss.” She pauses, not certain how to go on. ”The same day you arrived, Petyr, as Lord Protector of the Vale, received a letter from the capital. The lords of the Vale are to hand me over to the crown, or they’ll send their full force to attack the Gates.”

He says nothing, only looks at her, waiting for her to continue. She wishes she could read his face.

”Petyr told me of the letter the day after it arrived. He’s kept it to himself these past weeks, but there is no more time. He assures me I’m safe here, that there’s no need to worry, but…” She trails off. _I put myself in this situation_. She still _wants_ her cousin to live, of course, but tactically, it might have been best if… Sansa thought that with no hope to keep control of the Vale, Petyr would have no choice but to turn his attention North. Instead, she has now made herself disposable to the lords of the Vale. Robert Arryn will have heirs of his own one day. She takes a deep breath.

”Clegane.” He meets her eye with a great deal of apprehension in his features. ”It’s unlikely, but should the lords decide against my favour, I’ll need you.” She hopes this is enough.

”One man against all the lords of the Vale?” He stares at her, incredulous. ”I’d gladly give it a try, but there’s no warrior in the Seven Kingdoms who could get you out of that on his own.”

She is utterly confused. _He thinks I want him to…_ Three weeks of suppressing what must be dealt with, pretending everything is fine, and now he makes her _explain_ it to him.

”Clegane. I’m not asking you to die for me,” she says with all the calm she can muster. ”If they decide to hand me over to the crown, you must kill me.”

Silence. He stares.

”No.”

Taken aback, she stands from her chair. Rising to her full height, she says:

”I’m not asking.”

”And I’m not obeying.”

”You must. If Cersei— You _must.”_ She takes his silence as a no. _Is this how it is, then?_ Sighing, resigned, she sits back down. ”I suppose I’ll have to do it myself, then.”

Still no answer. She looks at her dagger, lying sheathed on top of her cedar chest. _I’ll be brave enough. I must be_.

”I seem to recall you threatening to kill me several times in the past. An now that I order you to do it, you refuse? Are you merely being obstinate? If so, I’d appreciate it if you picked a less crucial order.”

”You’ll want to get dressed, then. I’ll get your maid.”

With that, he leaves her.

—

They do not speak on their way to Lord Nestor’s solar. They do not speak as they wait outside, her pacing, him merely _standing_ there, looking as grim as ever. She should be firmer with him, she knows, should punish him for disobeying, but today, she has enough on her plate. 

Finally, the door opens and Petyr lets her in. He signs with his hand to be calm, but that could mean anything. Angry with him though she may be, Clegane’s presence behind her is a comfort.

”Lady Sansa, how good of you to join us.” Lord Nestor sits in his high seat at the short end of the long table. She sits down opposite him without being asked, because the chair is vacant, and she’ll not be made to feel small. To her right sits her husband. To her left is Lyn Corbray.

Neither’s presence is very reassuring.

”I trust it you have been informed of the matter at hand?” She’s always thought Lord Nestor a kindly man. She prays she’ll not be proven wrong today.

”Yes, Petyr has informed me of the letter.” Petyr would have advised her to keep quiet about that, but she won’t risk being accused of lying. Even Maester Colemon is in attendance, as is Old Sharra, Randa’s old septa. She counts every one of the Lords Declarant, save Lord Symond, who is at Ninestars managing his estate. Many lords and ladies are here to prepare for the celebrations of the Mother’s Festival in six week’s time. All want their house represented in the offerings, and none want theirs to be less than those of any other house.

Her Sweetrobin is not here. As he is not yet of age, it is entirely in order that Petyr attends in his place, but Sansa had almost expected him to come as well.

”Good, good. Did you read the letter, as well?” Sansa nods. ”Then you must have realized, just as we have, that these are nothing but empty threats sent by the Dowager Queen Cersei.”

”I…” Sansa sends a helpless glance at Petyr, who smiles encouragingly. ”I had hoped, naturally, that that were the case. It would pain me greatly to put you in such a difficult position.”

”There is no need to fret, my lady,” says Lady Anya. ”The Red Keep is in a state of disorder after the death of Lord Kevan and the Grand Maester. And Cersei holds little, if any, power in the capital these days. To acknowledge this threat would be to recognize _her_ position above the king’s.”

”I am very grateful that you would—”

She never has the time to finish her sentence. Lyn Corbray slams his fist on the table, making her jump, and stands up.

”Are we just going to ignore this? And keep this— ” He looks at Sansa in disgust, ”this _poison_ in our midst? She murdered a king, gods be damned!”

A stunned silence follows the knight’s outburst. Not even Petyr has anything to say, but then, he might as well have been the one behind Ser Lyn’s behaviour. Sansa forces herself to look at Ser Lyn.

”Do you truly think me capable of murder?”

”Yes.” He does not hesitate. She is too surprised to answer. Whatever Petyr told this man to do, _this,_ she is certain, is purely Lyn Corbray.

”Ser Lyn.” Harry’s usually easygoing attitude is nowhere to be found. There are no dimples in his cheeks as he stares at Lyn Corbray with hard eyes. ”You forget yourself. You were allowed in here as a favor from the Lords Declarant, but do not think for a second anyone in here has forgotten than shameful display at the Eyrie. And to accuse _my wife_ of murder? Don’t be absurd.”

Harry’s broad hand has found hers under the table, and she forces herself to give a light squeeze back.  _He will always be a loyal husband, at least, even if he'll never be a faithful one_.

”Sit down, Ser Lyn, and learn to behave yourself!” Yohn Royce scolds the knight as though he were a child. The knight obeys.

”You would risk Lady Sansa for an unfounded letter?” Petyr is calm, but she knows he is truly saying _You would risk the North for this?_

Lord Nestor clears his throat.

”Let us not dwell on these absurd accusations. Lady Sansa, on the behalf of the Lords Declarant and the Lord Protector of the Vale as well as your cousin, Robert Arryn, I want you to know that you are safe here at the Gates of the Moon.”

—

”Looks like you’ll live another day, little bird.”

_All this fretting for nothing_ , she thinks, not dignifying him with an answer. She can’t decide if she’s relieved or disappointed. She is, of course, glad to be alive. But she cannot bring herself to trust Petyr enough to believe he’d actually keep her safe if an army _should_ come marching on the Bloody Gate.

They’re on their way to the Maiden’s Tower. Randa needs help planning the festival. A chuckle from Clegane brings Sansa to stop and turn to look at him. This is the closest he has come to laughing in three weeks.

”I can’t believe that Corbray knight thinks _you_ killed Joffrey.” There’s something about the way he says it, as though the thought of her killing someone is laughable.

”I had a mind to, once,” she says, oddly defensive. _I am no little bird. My skin has gone from porcelain, to ivory, to steel_. He was there on the battlements that day. _He_ stopped her from pushing her betrothed over the edge.

He is no longer chuckling. The look he gives her is strangely sincere.

”There’s a difference between desperation and calculation, little bird.”

And just like that, she feels more guilty than affronted. What would the desperate child she once was think of what she’s become? The little girl with ribbons in her hair, the child who thought _if my stitches are perfect I’ll get married, if my singing is sweet he will love me_. It would feel blasphemous for the calculating creature that she is to wear ribbons in her hair now. _I swore I’d make them love me if I ever were queen, but I can’t even make my husband keep to my bed. Perhaps desperation is more effective than calculation, after all_. 

”Isn’t life a silly jape, sometimes?” she says, before she can stop herself. Without waiting for an answer, she starts walking again. Behind her comes the rasp of his voice, almost too quietly for her to hear:

”That it is, little bird.”

But they are neither of them laughing.

—

She and Harry are pretending as if nothing happened. At least, she is. Perhaps he tries to carefully bring it up, but she pretends to not notice and quickly changes the subject. Perhaps he is slow and deliberate when she comes to bed that night, not even undressing himself but trail kisses down her body and does those _things_ with his tongue that make her vibrate and melt and sing. Perhaps she waits until he is asleep before she allow the tears to come.

Yes, he made her feel _wonderful,_ but as soon as the waves of pleasure are gone, she is left with nothing but disgust. That she should allow herself to be touched by hands that make no distinction between her body and other’s. That she _enjoys_ it. A slow panic creeps through her limbs, and she gets out of bed, scrubbing at her skin. It’s too late to send for a bath, and besides, he’d wake up if she did. And so she is left with nothing to do but pace their solar, trying to keep one step ahead of her panic until her body is too exhausted to take another step. Defeated, she crawls back into bed.

Perhaps his breathing is not entirely even when she lays down beside him, but if so, she is too tired to notice.

 

 

 

 


	8. Sandor III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no, plot.

_’You must kill me.’_

Silly little bird, thinking he is here to take her life away. He thinks of her shining with pride as she handed him his tunic, her leaning her cheek into her husband’s kisses, her _laughing_ , a strange sight to him; no, it is not _taking_ he is here for.

He looks at her now, fluttering about the great hall, counting tapestries and seats while servants are polishing the candelabras and rearranging the tables. She calls for a tapestry to be taken down and replaced, and one might almost believe she is asking if it wasn’t for the straightness in her back and the way she holds her head, high as if bearing a crown. She is fully in her element here, self-assured and capable. Silly little bird. She has no business dying before her time.

Sandor has never cared much for the Mother’s Festival before. Mercy is not his domain, and he does not pray. He’s never truly grasped how much work goes into planning these things. It’s still weeks until the actual festival, but the celebrations officially begin one month ahead. Cersei was never involved in such matters, leaving it to her ladies-in-waiting to plan the feasts and festivals in the Red Keep. But the little bird, ever dutiful, has busied herself with the preparations, acting as both the lady of House Hardyng and the _de facto_ lady of the Eyrie. She knows what is expected of her, and acts before anyone has the chance to order her around.

”Clegane.”

By themselves, his feet start to walk towards her voice. She is half-hidden behind a tapestry depicting the Mother, holding up the edge. A bone needle sticks out between her lips, and she is inspecting a tear in the hem. Barely glancing up at him, she gestures to something behind him. He turns around and his eyes fall on a spool of thread on the closest table. He hands it to her and she graces him with a quick smile around the needle before she resumes her work. Unsure of what to do next, he stands with his hands on the pommel of his sword, feeling very large among the bustling ladies and servants.

They go on like this for days: her busy, him misplaced. There are no battles to be fought in the Great Hall, no threats to his charge. She cuts her index finger on her scissors the night before the first Mother’s Banquet, and he rushes to her side when he hears her cry out, blood rushing in his ears. She looks up, surprised, finger in mouth, and he realizes he’s drawn his sword. Naturally, Littlefinger is there to witness his embarrassment. The Lord Protector of the Vale stands behind the little bird, holding a wax tablet and stylus. Behind him stands Lothor Brune and Nestor Royce.

They’re all staring at him in stunned silence, until the little bird starts _laughing_. Slowly, trying not to lash out at her, Sandor sheaths his sword again.

”Well,” says Littlefinger, ”I’m glad to see I’m not paying you for nothing, Clegane. I’ll sleep easier at night knowing you’ll protect my dear Sansa from scissors and needles alike.”

_”Petyr,”_ says the little bird, reproachful. ”He’s just trying to do his job. You know I don’t feel safe with anyone else.”

This is news to Sandor. He stows it away for later, when he’s not half-blinded by purple-red anger and shame. The burnt corner of his mouth twitches, he knows, and she’s noticed.

”Of course, sweetling,” says Littlefinger. ”I apologize.” 

”It’s not me you should apologize to,” she says, and he wishes she hadn’t. But Littlefinger only gives Sandor a dark look, lowers his stylus, and pushes past him. Nestor Royce and Lothor Brune follow close behind. Strangely, Brune puts his hand on Sandor’s shoulder as he passes him, and just for a second, meets his eye. They’re almost of the same height, and it’s odd for Sandor to look at someone like that.

”I apologize on Petyr’s behalf,” sighs the little bird.

He wishes she’d stop using his first name like that. Makes him seem like a person. Like a friend. Sandor doesn’t think Littlefinger has friends. _Neither do you, dog_. 

—

The first Mother’s Banquet, held one month before the festival, is a drawn-out affair. Dish after dish is served, all while mummers and minstrels compete for the guests’ attention. The little bird sits at the high table and Sandor stands behind her through the entire ordeal. The boy, _ser_ Harrold, holds her hand through speeches and toasts. It is a custom of his. She doesn’t seem to mind. But then, she doesn't seem to mind Sandor’s face these days, either, so he supposes she could get used to most things. The night progresses, cups are refilled, and at last the final dish is rolled out. It’s a monstrosity of a cake, yellow, several feet high and decorated with late-blooming flowers. For some reason, it makes the little bird gasp audibly.

He can see her crane her neck up the high table towards the boy-lord Arryn, eyes shining. The little boy grins at her, and she brings her hand to cover her mouth.

_A strange thing to cry about,_ Sandor thinks. Though it _is_ a pretty cake. But he’s never seen her interact whatsoever with the boy Arryn before, and it’s not until now that it’s occurred to him that that might be strange.

She has three servings.

There is no dancing tonight. When the banquet is over, lords and ladies and knights sit in clusters around the tables, sharing stories and carafes of amber wine. Ser Harrold is off in some corner laughing at bawdy japes with some Winged Knights, and the little bird is trapped between lady Waynwood and lady Hunter. She sips her wine but her head keeps turning to the side, towards the gallery leading to the Falcon Tower. Eventually, she chirps her final courtesies for the evening and gets up to leave. Her cheeks are pink. Sandor falls in behind her as she slowly makes her way through the gallery and up the stairs. Almost at the top, she stumbles, and he hurries up to catch her shoulder and steady her. If she was pink before, she is now beet red when she looks up at him.

”I’m sorry,” she mumbles, and slips her arm around his — for support, he assumes. ”Thank you, I…”

She trails off, momentarily distracted by his upper arm that she is currently holding. She stares at it, just a moment too long, before she looks up at him again through her lashes. It’s so absurd that he doesn’t understand at first. When he does, it’s shameful how immediately the thought comes to him: _you know your part in this, dog. Snarl. Mock her. Be vile._

But her hand is pale and long around his arm, and her hair falls to the side as she sways slightly, exposing her collarbone. She looks vulnerable. The stairs are dark behind her. _No,_ he tells himself. _Remember where she’s from. A soft, snow-covered song. Remember your mother, dog, remember when you still had her: a gentler world, a kinder time_.

Taking a deep breath, he guides her carefully up the final steps of the stairs and through the short corridor leading to her chambers.

”Off you go to bed, little bird.”

His arms feels cold when she’s gone, and the stairs seem even darker.

—

Maddy informs him that his services are Not Needed the next morning. He had such a long day yesterday, after all. He deserves some free time.

Sandor does not put on his Northern tunic. At a loss, he wanders down to the sparring ring, but quickly thinks better of it when he sees ser Harrold there, training with Ben Coldwater. And so he lets his feet carry him elsewhere. He ought to see to Stranger.

The stables are unusually large, built on the ruins of the original keep. The little bird told him that, his very first day here, as if knowing the history of a place is vital if you’re to live there. Perhaps it is, if you come from an eight-thousand year old line of nobility. Sandor’s grandfather was a kennel-master.

He cuts through the lower gardens on his way, and hears her laughter from somewhere above. Looking up, he sees her sitting on a terrace with the Arryn boy, playing cards. She does not look down. He doesn’t know if he wants her to.

Stranger has a large box and plenty to eat, but is restless, so Sandor rides him for a bit outside the inner wall. After, he takes his midday meal in the soldier refectory. A walk afterwards does nothing to help his restlessness. He wanders through long, unfamiliar corridors until he finds himself in the gallery outside Littlefinger’s study. He is just two meters from it when the door suddenly opens. He stops.

The little bird closes the door behind her. She closes her eyes, leans against it and sighs. She hasn’t seen him.

”You sigh quite a lot, you know.” It’s all he can think of to say, and he wants her to know he is there.

Her eyes snap open and she looks at him, surprised.

”Oh! I didn’t see you there.”

”Something the matter, little bird?”

She twists a lock of her hair between her fingers thoughtfully.

”I wish I looked more like my father.”

It’s a peculiar answer to a simple question, and he doesn’t know what to say to that. _I wish I didn’t look like a monster_.

She smiles up at him.

”Are you enjoying your free day?”

”Not much to do. You got a task for me?”

She laughs. ”And here I thought I was being kind. You may accompany me to mass, if you like.”

Sandor never cared much for septs. He follows her anyway.

The benches are placed in front of the Mother’s statue. Nearly all of them are full when they arrive, only Sansa Stark is who she is, and room is made for her and her guard. Sandor hopes he’s not sitting directly in front of someone short. He already sticks out like a sore thumb in this hall of worship, no need to be an annoyance as well.

He has only attended mass when he’s had to. Joffrey was required to attend during festivals and sacred days, and Sandor would stand guard in the back. Sitting here is different. He doesn’t pay much attention to the septon, and is soon bored. He inspects every detail in the tall windows, the statues, the arched ceiling, and immediately forgets it all. He counts glass panes in the window above the Mother. He tries to remember the name of every hound in his father’s kennel when he was little. It is not until the very end that his attention is drawn back to the present.

There is singing.

 

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy_

_Save our sons from war we pray_ …

 

Something cold passes through his body and he looks down at the little bird beside him. She sings softly, and he almost cannot distinguish her voice among the others. She must have felt him move, but her eyes are fixed straight ahead. He keeps looking. Her hands are clasped in her lap, perhaps trembling. Perhaps he only wants them to be.

The hymn ends, as does mass. She rises slowly, and he follows, as always. Outside, she does not head back to the keep, but steers towards the godswood.

It’s not really a proper godswood with no heart tree, but it’s quiet. She sits down on a bench, and for the first time since they entered the sept, looks up at him, and gestures for him to sit beside her. Apprehension grows in his chest, but he does as he is bid.

”That was, um…” She fidgets with the hem of her sleeve. ”That was uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

He did not expect her to be this direct.

”No need to be sorry. Old killers like me have no place in septs.”

”You’re not just a killer.”

He scoffs. ”I’m not that bleeding Knight of Flowers, either.”

”You saved that _bleeding_ Knight of Flowers’ life once. You saved his life when you could have just let him die. And you defended yourself against your brother, but you could have _attacked.”_

He is surprised that she would remember _that,_ of all things. Truth is, Sandor has regretted time and time again that he did not kill Gregor that day, but in the heat of the moment, the thought never occurred to him.

”Don’t paint me like one of your _true knights,_ little bird. They only exist in songs.”

There’s that bird-like head tilt again. It makes her look very young. _She is very young_.

”If you don’t believe in true knights, why do you even care when knights are monsters?”

He wishes she’d stop doing that, wishes that she’d keep her mind from roaming his.

”You’ve always told me the truth,” she says, as if she actually believes it. ”And you came back for me.”

And just like it did in King’s Landing, her naïvety angers him.

”I’m not—”

Confusion silences him when she cups both his cheeks in her hands and turn him to face her.

”Don’t.”

It’s all she says. Very slowly, almost as if it isn’t truly happening, their faces are moving closer to each other. He’s not sure if she’s pulling him or if he is moving of his own accord. Her eyes are on his mouth, and her own lips are slightly parted.

For a moment, he truly thinks she means to kiss him.

But she goes suddenly still, and lets go of him. Suddenly she’s standing, and he’s left on the bench, slightly dizzy. Perhaps it is because she changed her mind, or perhaps because he actually _believed_ it, but that vibrating anger has returned. Seeping into his every limb, he tries to hold it back but now he’s standing, too, and his hands are balled into fists.

”Not _knight_ enough, I see,” he snarls.

She refuses to look at him.

He continues. He can’t not.

”Well, then, let’s make it easier for you. Do you want to know _why_ I came to your chambers that night?”

_That_ catches her attention. She looks up, wide-eyed, and he ignores the tear that meanders down her cheekbone.

”I wanted to take you, you know. That’s the only reason I came. I was going to fuck you at least once before I left that shithole.”

She blinks, visibly taken aback, but the shock is soon replaced by a raised eyebrow.

”Not a very original story,” she says. ”But I suppose it is less painful than the truth.”

With that, she leaves him.

He is stuck there for a while, staring after her. He should leave, he knows. He should never have come. He should have known it would end up like this.

_Let the past die, wasn’t that what you said, Elder Brother?_

With an old, familiar numbness, Sandor goes back to the keep in search of Dornish Sour.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaaaaaaahh please don't hate me


	9. Warrior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another interlude! This one might be a tad confusing if you've never read the books, but this fic _is_ tagged as book canon after all...
> 
> And I think we all need a break tbh, because next chapter's gonna be... uh... a Lot.

Anguy has not returned. It’s been three days.

Ned reluctantly helps packing up their campsite, trying to draw it out in case a flash of red hair should be seen in the woods, or a brightly-sung marcher ballad heard.

_The Riverlands are supposed to be safe_. Anguy took only two men with him to scout ahead, and now Ned wishes he’d insisted on him bringing more men.

He checks his saddlebags to make sure his rations are still there. One can’t be too careful. There’s barely any food left, and no-one left to plunder. The only people in these parts are farmers, and they’re not yet so desperate as to steal from the poor. _I miss Starfall_ , he thinks, not for the first time today. _I miss Cook and his honey-bread, I miss the feasts where I could eat as much as I liked, I miss the sweet cider Gerra makes. I miss Aunt Allyria_. 

He’s told Anguy all about Starfall. With some luck, they’ll get back there and Ned will find some work for Anguy in the guard.

”Dayne!”

It’s Donnal, calling from behind him. 

”Dayne, get over here! It’s Anguy!”

Heart in his throat, Ned hurries over.

Anguy is dead. Or so it seems to Ned at first. Ice cold dread builds in him like a wave when he sees the body, lying face down in the shrubbery.

”I saw him walking, and then he just fell.” Donnal is pushing at the body. ”Help me turn him, he needs air.”

”He’s dead,” Ned hears his own voice say.

The others are hurrying over to them at the edge of the woods. Melly is the quickest. She squats beside the body and helps Donnal turn it.

Relief like he’s never known it before washes through Ned when he sees Anguy’s chest heave. But then there’s the blood. A wound on his thigh has bled through his breeches, even though there’s a piece of cloth bound around it in a clumsy dressing.

”He needs a maester,” says Melly. ”This is beyond my abilities.”

”There’s no maester here!” Donnal’s voice is desperate. ”And where are the others? Where is Watty?”

Watty is Donnal’s cousin. They worked together in Watty’s mill.

”I don’t think he’s coming back.” Melly answers for Anguy, who is just opening his eyes, slowly.

”Anguy. Anguy!” Donnal hold’s the archer around his neck and jaw to keep his gaze locked with his own. ”What happened?”

”Soldiers…” Anguy’s voice is weak, and Ned hates that.

”Soldiers? What soldiers?” Merrit’s rough voice comes from behind Ned.

”Shut up and let him speak, you big oaf!” Melly reprimands him, and they all turn back to Anguy.

”East. Crown’s soldiers.”

”East? East where?” Donnal still holds Anguy’s head.

”I… I don’t…” Anguy _sobs,_ and Ned hates that even more that the weakness.

”He _needs_ a maester.” Melly puts her hand on Donnal’s shoulder.

”There _is no—”_

”The crossroads inn!” Ned is surprised at how loud he’s spoken.

”Are you _mad,_ boy?” says Merrit behind him. ”They might just as well hand us over to—”

”Edric’s right. It’s our only bet.” Melly is already helping Anguy up, along with Donnal. ”Hurry. Tell the others. We’re going to see Willow and Jeyne again.”

Ned nods, and runs as fast as he can back to camp.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp!
> 
> You guys! I made a tumblr for sansan stuff and maybe other writing idk,
> 
> [here!](https://cornix-upon-a-time.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> It's kind of sad and empty rn because I just made it and also have no idea about sansan tags and stuff on tumblr, so come by and say hi!!!!


	10. Sansa IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter:  
> Domestic violence and an unfortunate combination of non-con (not sex) and Extremely Bad timing.

Sansa’s hands are shaking. She thought they didn’t do that anymore. Petyr told Alayne it was far too blatant a sign of her discomfort, and Alayne had practiced flexing her fingers and repeating verses from the Seven-Pointed Star until she could sit in front of the Lords Declarant as Petyr revealed her true identity without so much as a tremble in her hands.

_I am no better than Harry,_ she thinks. _I may resent him for lying, but haven’t I lied as well? I loathe how he will never stay true to me, but I…_ She brings her hand to her lips. _The truth. No more lies._

She climbs the stairs of the Falcon Tower, trying to fortify herself for what must be done. She escaped the net of lies in King’s Landing; perhaps she can escape the one she’s woven around herself, as well. Harry should be up in their chambers changing for the evening meal by now.

She enters their bedchamber and the first thing she notices is the blue winter rose lying on the windowsill, right by her high-backed chair. The plates from her morning meal is still on the table: Maddy has not been here yet.

_Oh, Harry. They all told me of how you were far too handsome, when they should have warned me you could be sweet_.

The rose smells like home, but before the usual wave of sorrow has time to manifest in her chest, Harry enters from their solar.

”Wife!”

”Husband.” She answers his dimpled grin with a small smile of her own. ”The flower is lovely. Thank you.”

”It made me think of you.”

_Yes. That’s because it’s my flower. I planted it. You were there_ , she thinks. He walks over to the table and pours them a glass of wine each. She looks at him and thinks of her father, of his broad back and gentle hands. In some ways, she is glad that Harry is a less honorable man than Eddard Stark. She does not think she could bear it if she’d have to raise his bastards. She wonders if Harry ever visits them. She wonders what he’d look like, with a child in his arms. Would he go hunting when her time would come, like King Robert did when Cersei gave birth?

”I don’t want children,” she says conversationally. He turns so quickly that the wine in the cups splashes his tunic, and one slips from his grip and shatters on the stone floor. Sansa looks regretfully at the shards. It was a Pentoshi cup of blue glass. Some of the wine has splattered onto her skirts. It is no matter. Her dress is simple, grey wool.

”I— What?”

”I don’t.”

He looks at her as though she’s suddenly started breathing fire.

”This must be a bad jape of some sort. You cannot be serious.”

”I am quite serious.”

He takes one step closer to her, and by pure instinct she backs away. He still holds one cup.

”Is— Is this why— Have you—” His face is turning an alarming shade of red. Harry has never been an eloquent man, and shock and anger certainly aren’t helping.

”I have taken moon tea every morning since our wedding, yes.”

”Have you _any idea_ of the position we’re in? How this will look? How fragile my— _our_ position becomes without an heir?”

”Better than you think.” She eyes his hands warily. His fingers are white around the cup. Another step closer. _I have nothing to fear from this man._

”We _will_ have children. This is— We _will_ have heirs.”

He takes yet another step closer and raises his free hand, as if wanting to grab her shoulder. She holds her breath, waiting for the inevitable. But he changes his mind, and lowers his hand. She breathes out.

”You cannot force me to surrender my body to a child I don’t want.” There is a slight tremble in her voice, and she prays he doesn’t notice.

He doesn’t notice much at all. His face is red and taut with anger.

”You’re my _wife!”_ He all but screams.

”Yes,” she agrees, ”your _lady wife_. Not your servant. You seem rather confused by the concept, _ser_ Harrold.”

She should have known their difference in birth was sensitive: she’ll blame herself for this later. Now, it all happens in a blur. There is a sharp pain in her jaw and suddenly she’s looking at the floor, grabbing the edge of the table for support. Something drips onto the floor. _Wine,_ she thinks, _I must call for Maddy_. But then there’s a _crash:_ there’s the second wine cup, just dropped from her husband’s hands. The glass shards fly into her field of vision, and now she sees the difference between the drop and the splattered wine. Slowly, as if in a trance, she brings her hand to her lip. _Wet_. _Hurts_. This is familiar, but also not. It’s been very long since anyone went for her face.

With all the pieces of this puzzle in place, she looks up. Harry stands, open mouthed, one hand raised as though still holding the cup. His other arm is oddly angled down and if she hadn’t known why, she might have laughed at his strange pose. His eyes are wide and wild as he stares at her, but now it’s from fear rather than rage.

She straightens her back and looks at her hand. Red.

”Well,” she says, but can't think of anything else.

”Seven,” he says, and she doesn’t want to call it a _whimper_ , but nothing else comes to mind.

Her lower lips feels very warm and unnaturally big, just a _mass_ impeding her attempts to speak.

”Sansa,” Harry tries again. He reaches for her, but she takes a clumsy step back, hitting her hip on the edge of the table.

”Sansa, my love, I—”

”Don’t.” _Don’t call me that_.

”I’m sorry.” He’s lowered his hand.

”I’m sure you are.” Her voice sounds strange to her ears, as though she’s a child stumbling over words for the very first time.

”Please, Sansa, you must believe me, I never meant— I never… Please believe me, I lo—”

”Harry, please.” _Please don’t lay that on me now_. ”I need you to do something.”

A burning sensation tells her there will be tears, and he’s not meant to witness that.

”Anything.”

”I need you to leave. I need you to stay away, at least until the morrow. You can’t come back until then.” _I can’t look at you_. ”Can you do that?”

Silence.

”Yes,” he says at last, and she closes her eyes in relief. She waits for the sound of the door. But instead, there is the sound of glass against glass and shuffling about. She opens her eyes.

Harry is crouching on the floor, trying frantically to sweep the glass shards into a pile with a rag. She wishes she could scream and rage and curse at him.

”Don’t,” she says. _It won’t fix this_. ”Please.” She is exhausted.

When he is finally gone, she looks around the room. But for the wine and shattered glass on the floor, it’s as if nothing happened. Her blue rose lies on the floor next to her, and it’s when she picks it up that the tears come. 

Convulsive sobs rack her body, and she is grateful that no-ones here to see. Slowly, crying openly like a child, she makes her way to her high-backed chair, picking up a handkerchief from her cedar chest on the way.

She creeps up in her chair with her back against the door, pulling her knees up under her chin. The shutters are open, and the sound of her crying is carried out into the sky to mingle with the wind and the calling of the eagles. She doesn’t know why she’s still clutching the rose. She looks at it, and thinks of the little girl with ribbons in her hair and songs on her lips, and that only makes her cry harder.

—

At some point, Maddy comes to clean up. Sansa sends her away.

—

Dusk falls like a reprieve. Sansa is too tired to cry anymore. The rose is on the windowsill and her lip has stopped bleeding. The room is half-dark, lit only by a small fire burning low in the hearth. _Oh, Harry. How I wish you could have stayed handsome and stupid_. She thinks of that first time they danced, on the night before the Winged Knights’ tourney. It seems a lifetime ago. Her, so desperate for safety and eager for affection, him so easily entranced. What a little fool she was to mistake an infatuated man for refuge. She thinks of Cersei, sitting through banquets while King Robert found quiet corners with whores and servant girls alike. She wonders how she could stand it. _’Love no-one but your children, my dove’,_ she’d told Sansa once, but Sansa have no children to love.

_I wonder if Harry ever struck Saffron. Or Cissy. Or any of those pretty serving girls. Or,_ she thinks dryly, _is it only the woman he professes to love that he’s hurt?_

Some self-indulgent part of her wants to dwell on that, but the sound of the door opening interrupts her.

She freezes.

It is not Maddy’s deliberate discretion she hears, nor Harry’s long strides. These steps are clumsy, and heavy. Uneven. 

”Little bird.” His voice is as unsteady as his steps, and there is something heavy in his voice, lying over it like a thick cloak. He is drunk. This, too, is familiar, but also _wrong_. She hasn’t seen him touch anything stronger than the watered-down cider in the soldier refectory since their reunion. _Perhaps this is my fault, as well. I should never have…_ Her lip pulsates with pain. _Perhaps I should have kissed him_. 

He has moved into the room and closed the door behind him. Still she dares not turn to look at him. _I must look a fright. He will think me weak. A stupid little bird who cries over a split lip_. She is angry, she realizes, that he would come to her chambers at this hour, with no forewarning, drunk as a dog. There is still glass on the floor.

”Now is not a very good time, Clegane,” she tells the darkness outside the window.

”Oh, it isn’t?” He scoffs. ”Damn woman can’t even look at me.”

”Please,” she says quietly, but it’s caught by the wind and blown away.

”Look at me,” he says, and it pains her to hear a strange desperation in his voice. She can’t look. If she does, he’ll see. ”Little bird. Look at me.” She can hear him take a step closer. ”LOOK AT ME!”

She flinches.

”Please, Sandor.”

” _’Please,’_ ” he mimics. ”A chirping bird, still.” Another step. ”No. I’m doing your bidding. That’s all I’ll ever do, isn’t it?” He gives a dark chuckle, but is soon grim again. ”The truth, you said.”

He is far too close now, and Sansa’s entire body tenses. _Please leave,_ she thinks. _Please sober up_.

”Is _this,”_ he grabs her shoulder, drags her up, ”true enough for you?”

She is twirled around in his iron grip, and suddenly. Suddenly. There it is: his cruel lips on hers, hard, _wanting_. He tastes like wine.

Many times, she has dreamed of this. There is no use denying it: she has wanted this. But now, here, all she can feel is panic. His grip is crushing on her shoulders, and she can feel her lip breaking all over again; she tastes blood, mingling with the wine. Sansa cries out in pain and fear against his lips, and even in his drunken haze he seems to notice.

He jerks away from her, but still clutches her shoulders.

”Still a dog,” he rasps, ”and drunk, damn me. Wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.”

Finally, he loosens his grip, backs away, and _looks_ at her. Slowly, he seems to take it all in: her red eyes, split lip, the wine on her dress and her tangled hair. There’s some blood that’s dripped onto her dress, she knows. His eyes widen. Sansa is ashamed, and she wishes she weren’t.

It’s lucky she’s already wept for hours. Otherwise, she thinks she would break down in front of him.

”Who?” he asks, and lifts his hand towards her lip, as if wanting to touch it. He stops himself. ”Doesn’t matter. Part of it’s me.”

She says nothing. Slowly, he backs away further, looking almost afraid.

”Should go. Shouldn’t have… I should go.”

”Yes,” she agrees, heart breaking, ”you should.”

His eyes have found the shattered glass on the floor. He stares. Keeps backing. And just like that, without a word, he has left her.

_’Wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.’_

Sansa understands, she thinks.

This is the second man sworn to protect her that she’s turned away today. She will need to speak with Petyr tomorrow about this mess, and she does not look forward to it. For now, she only wants to sleep. Exhausted, she drags herself over to the bed and, without bothering to change out of her bedraggled dress, curls up on top of the covers. Tomorrow, things won’t seem so grim. She’ll figure out how to handle her husband and Sandor if she can only get through this night. _And tomorrow, maybe,_ she thinks, _I won’t burn every hand that touches me until I am surrounded by nothing but smoldering coal and ashes._

Time passes, and she cannot be certain of how much when the war bells start to ring.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very nervous about your reactions to this one!  
> As always, thank you for reading and for your wonderful comments! They are my fuel to keep writing! <3


	11. Sandor IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Which Frightened Soldiers Have a Tendency to Exaggerate

The silver embroidery on the tunic shines in the light from the fire. He’s laid it out on top his covers, just like his mother would do when she’d made him something new. 

_It bears the Stark emblem. I can’t keep it_.

Carefully, he rolls it up and stows it deep in one saddle bag. It’s dead weight, but she made it for him. The little bird may not want to keep him here, but he’s allowed to keep the one gift she’s ever given him. He thinks. He’s not actually certain.

But the tunic is coming with him.

He pulls on the plain hauberk, and stops by the kitchens on his way to the stables. There is hardly anyone here at this hour, the cooks have gone to sleep and so have the scullery maids, leaving only a filthy little boy to keep the ovens warm until morning.

The boy in question is currently asleep under a table.

Sandor walks as quietly as his bad leg and inebriated state will allow him to, and rummages around for dried meat, cheese and fruit. It seems he is doomed to keep leaving castles in the dead of night, drunk as a dog. Somehow, it’s as fitting an end for Sandor Clegane as dying on the banks of the Trident was for the Hound. _Back to digging graves_. He wishes he could stay. But she wants him gone, told him so herself, and he knows it is best that way. _I hurt her. I’m no better than that damn Trant_.

The cold night air clears his head somewhat, the winds cutting through his drunken haze. Stranger is impatient in his box, as though he's been expecting Sandor. He quickly saddles the horse and mounts him before he’s even out of the stable, bending his neck as he rides out through the tall stable door.

_Perhaps she didn’t mean for me to leave,_ he thinks suddenly, keeping Stranger at a trot towards the Western Gate. _Perhaps she just wanted to be alone._ No. It’s no use. He must go.

He has just reached the gate when he hears the bells. _No. No. Not now_. The gate is closed, and it sure as all seven hells won’t open now. He dismounts and hands the reins to the closest person, a young soldier who seems relieved to have a task in all the confusion. Guards are running back and forth, shouting from the wall. Braziers are being lit all along the wall, illuminating the men running along it. The gate opens just enough for a man to run through, and it closes immediately behind him. Sandor runs up to the man. He stands leaning his hands on his thighs, catching his breath. Even in the darkness, Sandor can see that he is drenched in sweat, and his face is red.

”You!” Sandor shouts, using the voice he saves for barking orders. ”Report.”

The man is clearly exhausted from running, but like any trained soldier, he straightens his back at the order.

”The Bloody Gate. Crown’s soldiers. They’re…” The man trails off, and Sandor can see that he is shivering. ”They’re led by a _giant.”_

”Speak the truth, soldier. There are no giants.” Sandor curses his bad luck. Just as he is on the cusp of getting out, they are attacked and he has to get his information out of this terrified madman.

”No, ser, I swear! He is taller than any man i’ve seen, and he wears a white Kingsguard cloak. His greathelm is like a barrel, and he wields an enormous sword. The blade is as broad as a normal man’s face, and the pommel is bigger than my fist, shaped like some animal’s head.”

”It’s a dog’s head,” says Sandor numbly. He knows that sword. It once belonged to his father.

”You know this monster? You know who he is?”

”I know who he was.” _Gregor is dead. Gregor is dead. Gregor is dead_. ”The Bloody Gate has never been breached, isn’t that right?”

”A hundred armies have broken against the Gate.” The soldier says the words like a boy reciting to his Maester. ”But, ser, they… Ser Donnel is dead. Shot through the head with a crossbow bolt before he could even say his words. His squire is cowering in the northern tower.”

_This is your chance, dog. Get your revenge. The fates have given you this gift_. They’ll never breach the Gate. Lannister soldiers are paid too well, have too comfortable homes waiting for them to die in the mud outside a closed gate. Even Cersei should realize this is hopeless.

And so it hits him.

Lannister gold.

They’ll offer wealth beyond any common man’s dreams for the little bird, and it’s only a matter of time before one of these Valemen decide to forsake their honor for gold.

_Get your revenge, dog_. 

”Listen. Listen to me, soldier!” Sandor grabs the man’s shoulders. ”Gather all the men in the keep, send half to the Bloody Gate and have the other half wait here. Send for them when— _if_ you need them.”

”But, ser, the Eastern Gate—”

”Is there an army outside the Eastern gate? No? Then do as you’re bloody well told, soldier. And I’m no damn ser.”

He lets go of the man, and hurries stumbling back to his horse. _I wish I wasn’t this damn drunk_. He curses himself and his weakness, and steers Stranger back to the keep.

—

The keep is seemingly abandoned, with all the guards out joining the defense and the ladies safely barred into their chambers. Sandor hurries through the Great Hall and into the gallery leading to the Falcon Tower and almost runs straight into a Winged Knight, some Lynderly boy.

”Ser,” says the boy, clearly trying to sound authoritative. ”Haven’t you heard? No-one’s allowed in the Falcon Tower. Ser Harrold’s orders.”

”I _live_ in that damn tower, boy. And spare me your _sers_. Damn courteous Valemen.”

He pushes past the knight unceremoniously, and it seems to be enough. He passes through the gallery without so much as a shout behind him. He carefully climbs the stairs, which is bad enough with just his leg giving him trouble, but now there’s the wine as well. One floor up, he stops. The maid’s door is slightly open, as if she’s left in a hurry. Probably roused by the bells. Without stopping to contemplate the morality of his actions, he pushes open the door and enters. The room is similar to his, and a simple wooden chest stands by the end of the bed. He rummages through its meager contents and finds a brown dress, simple and worn. It will do. He stows it in the makeshift sack he’s made from his old robes and a piece of string and resumes his climb.

At the top, he takes a deep breath, trying to focus. _This time, it’ll work. It has to_. He pushes. Nothing happens. She’s barred it from the inside. There’s no use calling for her; she wouldn’t let him in now. He backs two steps, and throws all his considerable weight against the door.

It creaks, and remains shut.

He kicks it, and it gives way just a little. He can hear the wood splinter on the inside. He keeps kicking and pushing until finally, it breaks open.

She stands in the centre of the room, still in that wine-stained dress, holding her dagger. But this time, it is not aimed at Sandor. No, she holds her chin up and the blade poised at her own throat. This threat is somehow far more efficient.

_’I suppose I’ll have to do it myself, then.’_

”No need for that, little bird. It’s only me.” It’s not until he’s said it that he realizes how that sounds coming from a man that just broke down her door.

”Oh, is it?” Even exhausted as she looks, she still manages to produce some dry humor in her voice. ”Leave. They’re coming, aren’t they? Let me die in peace.”

She actually looks like she means it.

”That won’t do. Put down the knife, little bird. No-one’s coming but me.”

She furrows her brow.

”Put it down,” he repeats. ”Strap it to your belt instead. You’ll need it.”

She must be very tired, because she does as she is told almost mechanically. He walks over to the large chest where he knows she keeps her cloaks, pulls out a thick one made from dark blue wool and tosses it at her. She doesn’t catch it, and it falls into a pile at her feet. She looks at it, confused.

”Put it on,” he tells her impatiently. ”We’re leaving.”

She raises her head and gives him a long stare.

”Ask me.” Her voice is weak and hoarse, but her eyes are boring holes in him.

”Put it on, girl. No time.” He approaches her, picks up the cloak and tries to shove it at her, but she backs away. Not for the first time today, he regrets the wine. It’s made him impatient and unsteady. ”I’m taking you with me, and that’s that.”

_”Ask_ me.”

She’s up against the bed now, and that makes him revisit another time in her chambers, a night that shone green and the water burned. But he’s holding a cloak and not a dagger, and so he trusts himself enough to keep approaching her. She is wide-eyed, trapped, and with nowhere else to go, climbs up to stand on top of her bed.

He is angry now, that she is being difficult every time he tries to make himself useful to her, and so his voice is harsher than he means to when he says:

”Girl. Put it on.”

But she is angry too, staring down at him with a fury he’s never seen in her before. Her tangled hair is loose and wild about her shoulders, and she’s gripping onto a canopy pillar as she all but screams:

”ASK ME!”

Slowly, her words register and he understands. _Give her a choice, dog._

”Little bird,” he says, slowly lowering the cloak and backing away a step. ”I’m leaving. Will you come with me?”

She breathes out a sigh of what he thinks is relief, and the rage leaves her features.

”I will,” she says gravely, and holds out her hand for him to help her down. It’s such a simple gesture that she probably never thinks twice about, but he takes her hand with something like awe in his chest, and guides her down. _She lets you touch her, dog_. _Even after what you did_. He quickly shoves the thought down before it takes root. In his chest is a monster that hungrily devours his every wish and regret, growing large and terrible with hope and want.

”Is that all you have?” She nods towards him, a neutral mask in place. ”You’ll freeze.”

”Didn’t need much where I was.”

She looks him up and down thoughtfully before she crosses the room and opens her dress chest. At first, he thinks she’ll give her something of her husband’s, and wonders if his pride is worth freezing for. But what she actually pulls out is much, much worse.

There is a moment when he can only stare at the white bundle in her arms. _She kept it_. The cloak he left in shame and defeat, the symbol of his pretend chivalry — _she kept it_. He looks at her split lip, her tangled hair. Angry red skin peeks out from under the hem where he grabbed her shoulder earlier. He looks back at the cloak. There is no taking it back now.

”Little bird. No.” It’s all he can say.

”No time,” she says, throwing his own words back at him, and pulls at his makeshift sack to push the cloak in. She rushes back to her chest and quickly gathers a few more things to put in the sack before she finally fastens her blue cloak around her shoulders and looks up at him expectantly.

”You can’t say goodbye,” he informs her, just in case. ”Your… I think he’s down by the gate. We must leave.”

She looks almost offended.

”I _know_ that. And Harry… he’s better off. I am… removing myself from the equation.” She looks down at her hands. ”It’s better this way.” She mumbles the last part, and he might not have heard it if he hadn’t been listening for it.

Unable to think of anything to say to that, he carefully puts his hand at the small of her back to motion her towards the door. She flinches away, and walks quickly ahead. He follows, pretending not to be bothered at all.

—

She stops dead in her tracks when she sees Stranger tied up outside.

”You saddled—” She stops, and seems to collect herself. ”We need to get my palfrey. She’s in the—”

”No time,” he interrupts her. ”And you can’t have your own horse. We get caught, it’s better they think I stole you away.”

He is grateful when she gives a curt nod, knowing there is little, if any time left for them to get out. But the frustration returns when she stops right by Stranger, and turns her head away from him, saying nothing, just standing there. He's just about to snap at her when he realizes: she’s only ridden in high sidesaddles before. _This is her giving permission_.

As gently as he can, he lifts her into the saddle. Making sure she is steady, he lets go of her waist. She arranges her leg around the pommel, still not looking at him. He is grateful that at least she’s not screaming at him, and mounts behind her, pretending not to be affected by their closeness. Just before he has time to urge Stranger forward, she puts her hand on his chest and looks up at him.

”I can’t keep paying you.”

He stares at her, incredulous. He can’t decide if she’s being serious or not. So instead of answering, he urges Stranger into a quick trot.

They pass through the gate he ordered to be unmanned, and she looks up at the wall, but doesn’t ask where the guards are. The guards on the outer wall let them out easily enough, it being too dark to tell who they are, and there is no danger in letting people leave. They’ll catch a ship in Gulltown, any ship. Somehow he’ll get her to safety. As they leave the Gates of the Moon, he tries his very hardest to not think about how for all these years, while he believed his one chance at true chivalry to be lost and burned, she kept his white cloak hidden in a cedar chest in the Vale.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear.  
> Honestly I can't thank you guys enough for your kind words of encouragement and just for sticking around!! Thank you!!
> 
> and, in case any of you missed it, I made a Cornix-tumblr [here!](https://cornix-upon-a-time.tumblr.com/)


	12. Smith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my plan was to have three regular updates in between interludes, but for timeline reasons they will pop up at shorter intervals for a bit here. So, have another! Hope you'll like it!

It’s raining the day she walks through the door.

Gendry is just finishing up in the smithy, hurrying so that he doesn’t have to run back to the inn in the dark. He doesn’t do well with the dark anymore. It’s not that Thoros’ words about terrors have gotten to him (because they haven’t), but he _knows_ things now that he didn’t before. Has seen with his own eyes things he’d scoffed at when old Mallo the Singer told it to whoever would listen for a bowl o’ brown in Flea Bottom.

He wipes his hands on an old rag. Hammers are all hung up over the anvil where a hardy is neatly in place, and he has covered the glowing coal with ash in the forge.

He takes one final look around, content with his day’s work, and puts his cloak on.

This is when the knock comes.

First, Gendry’s eyes go to the window by the door. One of the shutters is loose, and if one doesn’t cram a piece of bark or cloth in the gap, it’ll fly open and bang against the wall as the winds see fit.

The shutter is firmly closed.

There is no second knock. There is no-one calling for him. Willow is busy in the buttery today, and Jeyne never comes down here. He’s not sure if Ned and the others are still here, since he saw Anguy walk yesterday, but they’d have no business in the smithy.

He stands absolutely still, staring at the door. Through the sound of the rain hitting the roof, he can hear a scratching sound, and then, the door is opening.

And there she is. Walking into his smithy as if… As if _nothing_.

Her skin is darker than he remembers, her hair longer. It’s half tied up, and she wears sensible breeches and boots.

She is very pretty.

She was always pretty, of course, pretty the way a child is when she holds her head high proudly, pretty the way a girl is when she bests you in a game, laughing. Now, she is pretty like rage, like a forge fire burning too hot, like the sharp blade of a fresh-forged sword.

She looks at him.

”Are you the blacksmith?”

He doesn’t hear the rest she says. _She doesn’t recognize me_. She speaks strangely, like she puts the utmost care into pronouncing each word. Like Willow when she says a word she’s only read before, never heard spoken.

”Arry,” he says, ”I mean— m’lady.”

She blinks. Narrowing her eyes, she looks at him closer, and he realizes he has his hood up. Quickly, he pulls it down, knowing how eager he must look.

”Gendry.” She says it like it’s a full sentence.

He is at a loss. A part of him — no, _all_ of him expected… something. She looks at him patiently, as if waiting for him to do something.

”My horse?” She gestures behind her. ”The shoe? I can pay.”

_So that’s what she said_. He follows her on unsteady legs, still not certain she has _recognized_ him.

—

”I thought you were with the Brotherhood Without Banners.” She peers at him over her bowl of Jeyne’s mushroom stew. It’s the first sliver of interest she’s shown in him the entire evening.

”I am. Jeyne and Willow are loyal to the Brotherhood. They’re encamped just west of here, in the woods. In fact, there’s…” Gendry trails off, not knowing how to go on. Thoros has told him of the Lady’s secret, and right now, he wishes the red priest would have kept his mouth shut. ”There’s someone you should meet. I think. M’lady.”

She grimaces.

”Don’t call me that. Are you trying to recruit me?”

”No. You didn’t seem very fond of us last time. You left.” He wishes that last bit didn’t sound so dejected as it leaves his mouth. ”Where’d you go?”

”Braavos,” she says conversationally, as if it were no more foreign than Maidenpool.

”Right.” Perhaps the Free Cities _are_ no more foreign than Maidenpool when you’re born to a great house. ”Well, we should head to the camp.”

”Now?” She eyes him suspiciously. ”It’s dark. How do I know this is not some trap?”

That hurts. He takes a deep breath.

”You won’t thank me for making this wait. And why would I lead you into a trap?”

She gives him a long look.

”I’m going to bring my sword.”

—

She walks in silence beside him, and it’s not at all familiar. The way she walks is so very controlled and measured, not at all like when he knew her. Back then, she seemed to move out of spite and anger alone. But this… 

_What was it she used to call her swordfighting? Water dancing? Yes, that’s what she moves like. Like a dance, if the dancer is set out to maim and murder_.

He feels very clumsy and loud beside her when he steps on twigs on the ground and stumbles over rocks in the dark. Luckily, it’s not far to walk. The camp is just far enough that the sounds from it doesn’t reach the Kingsroad or any travelers on it.

”Who goes there?” The voice comes from ahead, where a torch shines a faint light. Gendry knows Thoros always takes the first watch because he enjoys watching the fire as darkness falls, hungry for new visions.

”Gendry,” he calls back. ”And… Arya Stark.”

Thoros doesn’t answer, but the light is approaching quickly. She swats him on his arm, and he turns to see her glaring up at him.

”Why did you tell them who I am?” She hisses.

”He’ll recognize you anyway!” He whispers back, knowing that the priest can probably hear them by now.

The light falls on their faces as Thoros reaches them.

”My lady.” The priest looks intently at her, and Gendry thinks there is something almost like regret in his eyes. ”So it has come to this. Follow me. Please.”

—

He does not know what to expect when Arya is brought before the Lady. Her tent is at the edge of the camp. Harwin lets them in. The tent is large and lit by oil lamps, but Gendry sees no bed in there. The Lady stands at the centre, awaiting them as they enter.

It’s even worse than he remembers. Perhaps his mind has gentled the image of her, but here, now, she is terrifying to behold. The scratched-up face, the hard eyes, the _slit throat,_ and the flesh that looks like something floating in the Flea Bottom gutter makes him shudder. With Arya beside him, he wishes the image in his mind was true. Bracing himself even more than for the horror before him, he turns to look at her.

She is wide-eyed, frozen where she stands. Slowly, her eyes turn from horror, to disbelief, to pain, to rage. Then, her voice, which is small and unsteady:

”Mother?”

He has never heard her sound like this. It makes him want to look away, to leave.

The Lady tilts her head slowly, her hard eyes studying the girl. A mercifully gloved hand goes up to cover the grisly cut across her throat. Her lips move, and out comes a _croak,_ and another, and even Harwin looks at a loss. The Lady lifts her other hand towards Arya and croaks again.

Arya’s face is as white as the Lady’s, her lips thin and bloodless. Slowly, she turns her eyes on Thoros.

”What,” she says, deadly calm, ”have you done to her?”

Thoros takes a step back, lifting his hands in front of him as if trying to appease a wild animal.

”My lady—”

He never has time to finish the sentence before she is on him, sword drawn and poised at his throat.

_”What have you done?”_

For a moment, Gendry believes she will truly kill the red priest, and he wonders how he will get her out of the camp before anybody catches them. He’d have to get past Harwin. He’d have to get past _her_. But before any killing can be done, they are all distracted by a strange sound. As one, Gendry, Arya and Thoros turn to look at the Lady.

She has fallen to her knees, and she holds an outstretched hand towards Arya. Her other hand has fallen to her side, and without it covering the gash in her throat, hoarse, hissing noises escape her lips.

He realizes she is crying.

And Arya. Arya is crying, too, but very quietly. Her small, childish sword is slowly being lowered from Thoros’ neck, and she has seemingly forgotten he is even there. Fat tears roll down her cheeks when she walks towards what is left of her mother.

Gendry wants to look away, he truly does, but his eyes are glued to the scene before him. He does not remember much of his own mother, but he remembers seeing her dead. He remembers how _wrong_ her cold skin was, how harrowing it was to look into her blue eyes and find them empty. _I’d have done it again,_ he thinks, _if this was the alternative_.

Arya does not recoil when the Lady puts her hand on her cheek. The Lady is a strange heap on the floor where she is kneeling, and her other hand is flailing uselessly over her slit throat. No words can be made out of the sounds she is making. Her face is a mask of cold despair, like an animal trapped, facing the blade. She looks hideous.

She looks pitiful.

Arya puts her own hand on the Lady’s ruined cheek, and Gendry realizes what is about to happen. Quick and smooth as water, she has raised her sword and driven it through the Lady’s chest, straight into the heart.

Harwin cries out, but is held back by Thoros.

The Lady has collapsed around the sword, and when Arya pulls, it comes out with a wet, impossibly loud sound that he realizes is a sob. Carefully, slowly, he walks over to the girl, who is now crouching on the ground next to the body. The Lady’s eyes are still open, but they are no longer hard, but empty. Just like Gendry’s mother’s were. It is a mercy.

He falls to his knees beside Arya, and puts his hand on her back the way he’s seen Willow and Jeyne do when the other’s tired, or sad. He must have done it wrong, because she sobs again, even louder. But then, to his surprise, she turns towards him, almost throws herself against him, and clutches the front of his tunic. He puts his other arm around her, as well. It seems the proper thing to do. She is shaking.

But her hands grasp at him desperately, and she is pressing her forehead against his chest, and for the first time since she walked through his door, she is _here_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Sansa V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so just to clear a thing up: I realize now that I am guilty of some show-level teleportation situations. I had a look at the map and did some measuring, and damn did I mess up the distances of QI - Gulltown - Gates of the Moon. I will probably go back and fix that at some point, but for now, the one-day-trip between Gulltown and GotM stays. It doesn't make any sense compared to the other distances, but I don't have the time to fix it right now.
> 
> And, at the risk of being terribly long-winded, I feel like I should mention that I move to a whole new city in one week to attend a new academy and while I am very excited about that (yay!) it might mean there'll be a slower updating pace in the future.
> 
> Hope you'll like this chapter! And thank you all for your wonderful comments! <3

She must have fallen asleep somewhere on the road to Gulltown. She didn’t want to; she fought it all the way through the mountain pass, but the even, straight road from there on must have defeated her. Sandor’s horse did not have the soft footing of her palfrey, but he was steady enough. Steady steps and an even road. Yes, that must have been it. Not the warm, broad chest that she rested her cheek on, nor the arms around her holding the reins.

Sansa wakes in a long, narrow room, feeling very disoriented and slightly sick. The walls are wood, and a four-armed wooden chandelier sways heavily from the low ceiling. A thin ray of sunlight stream in from a small window covered with waxed white linen. She is lying on a bed with a straw mattress and rough blankets, and at the other end of the narrow room is another bed. At the foot of her bed, on a stool, sits Sandor. He has the cloak she kept in his lap, staring down at it. He doesn’t seem to have noticed that she is awake. A part of her doesn’t want to speak with him, wants to glare and sulk and despise. There is a dull, throbbing ache in her lip, and she knows it’s not _him_ she should resent for that. But it’s all twisted and tangled in her mind, a mess of pain and grief.

”Where?” she asks, although she meant to say a full sentence.

He flinches at the sound of her voice, and looks at her. She is suddenly very conscious about the fact that she just woke up, her hair is tangled, and she is _still_ wearing her stained dress. _I hope I didn’t snore_. She doesn’t think she snores. At least, Harry never—

_Oh, Harry_.

”Just south of Crackclaw Point. I’m taking you to the Quiet Isle, but… I tried to make the captain make a turn up towards Saltpans, or even Maidenpool, but he’s hard-set on getting his wares to Sunspear on time. Looks like we’re not going ashore any sooner than Parchments. We’ll have to go back north from there.”

_Sunspear? Parchments?_ Just then, the entire room lurches to the side, and she almost rolls off the narrow bed. _A ship. We’re heading south_.

Then it hits her.

”Parchments? But… But that’s south of King’s Landing!” She sits up a little too fast, and a wave of queasiness washes over her.

”I _know,_ little bird.” He throws his hands up, and by instinct she flinches away. He must have noticed, because he quickly lowers his hands and looks at her strangely.

”What did you offer to pay?” she asks quickly, content to pretend like nothing happened.

”Not enough, apparently,” he says gruffly. ”Too late now, anyhow.”

”There’s still Duskendale.” Looking around the small room, she spies the sack he brought to her chambers just beside him. ”There’s a red velvet pouch in there.” She nods towards the sack. ”Could you give it to me, please?”

He mumbles something she can’t make out, but he does as she asked.

The pouch is fairly heavy with whatever jewelry she got her hands on in her hurry last night. Rummaging through it, a gleam of purple-black catches the light, and slowly, thought still forming in her mind, she pulls the hairnet out. The amethysts gleam brightly even in this faint light, and she is suddenly hit by the desire to wear it. She holds it out to Sandor.

”Here. There’s a stone missing, but try adding this to your bribe. It’s Duskendale or we’ll surely die.”

He takes the hairnet carefully in both hands, and it looks odd, such a fragile little thing in his large, calloused hands.

”Don’t need a broadsword to kill a mouse, little bird. This is worth far more—”

”Just take it. We’re better off without it, believe that. Is there any chance I can get a tub of water brought here?”

As soon as he leaves with the hairnet, a wave of relief washes over her. She can be rid of it. The only proof of Joffrey’s murder can finally be taken from her hands. From a tactical point of view, it’s a disastrous move, but it’s been eating at her for all this time, and she just wants to be free of it.

She finds her comb in the sack and works through her long tresses while she waits for him to return. When he does, he carries a large bucket of water.

”Duskendale it is. It’ll be six days, though. Here’s your water.” He sets it down in the small space between the bed and the wall. 

”Thank you,” she says, pulling out a larger pouch made from cheap, un-dyed linen and weighs it in her hand.

”What’s that there?” he says, eyeing the pouch skeptically.

Sansa smiles, but some part of her wants to weep.

”Alayne.”

—

It’s with a small twinge of regret that she runs her hands through her now dark brown hair. She can’t say why she kept the herbs for dying it. Perhaps it was only a strange sense of nostalgia. She certainly never believed she’d use them again. 

The water was cold, but she is clean and her hair is dyed. That’s all she could ask for. The dress Sandor pulled out of the sack is a little big for her, but she decides it’s only comfortable. He looked very uncertain when he held it out to her, and she recognized the green ribbon at the hems immediately.

”Did you steal from my maid?” she asked, incredulous.

”Seemed a good idea at the time. You want it or not?”

She’d accepted it with something very small and warm in her chest that she hopes isn’t affection.

There is, of course, another dress in the sack that she threw in last night. But it’s a white linen dress best worn beneath a heavier gown, not very practical for traveling. In her exhaustion, it was the only thing she found that seemed simple enough.

She is braiding her hair when he returns to their cabin, and she tenses at his entrance. She wishes she didn’t, but there it is: the events of last night affected her more than she’d like to admit. He pauses in the door, staring at her hair.

”You look strange,” he rasps.

”Different enough?” she asks, pretending not to be offended by his comment.

He eyes her from head to toe, and she tries not to squirm.

”I can still tell you don’t belong in a dress like that,” he says, and she doesn’t ask what he means. He looks at the bucket, which is now filled with a black-brown sludge, as well as something else.

”It’s, um…” She trails off. ”You need a proper cloak, and there already was one, but white isn’t exactly discreet, and, well, I already mixed the dye…”

He looks at it for several moments before he responds:

”Right.”

They leave it at that, and Sansa finally leaves their cabin to go out in the fresh air.

It’s already dark outside. There are few crewmen on deck, but she pulls her cloak up just in case. To the west, she can just make out lights from the mainland, and to the east, nothing but vast darkness. _So. The Quiet Isle_. She knows little of the Isle save for its existence, but she supposes it’s as safe as any place can be. Neither Petyr nor Cersei would think to look for her in such a place. However… It’s not that she has a better plan in mind, but the way he phrased it, as if he’s had this plan all along, not even _asking_ her what she thinks, as though she’s a helpless _child_. Sansa is so very tired of being treated like a valuable horse, to be stolen and used and saved at the whim of everyone’s desire but her own. Sansa puts her hands on the railing and stares out into the darkness. _Is this what freedom feels like? Like there is nothing left?_ There is Sandor, of course, and the husband she left behind. And Petyr will search for her, she is certain, even if Harry doesn’t.

She wonders if Harry is relieved. Without her, he can do as he likes without the uncomfortable reminder that he should feel guilty about it. She wonders if she will come to miss him, as time passes. _Leaving him was a kindness to both of us._

—

Sansa doesn’t sleep much on the ship. She walks the deck and leans on the railing for hours, looking out into nothing and trying her hardest to quiet her mind. On the third day, just at the cusp of dawn, that is how Sandor finds her. The deck is abandoned but for the two of them, as the captain will only sail during the day this close to the coast.

”Can’t take the road when we go ashore,” he says, by way of greeting. ”We’ll head west and travel through the woods. It’s slower, but safer.”

_The woods_. Sansa thinks of the Wolfswood, cold and deep, where shining white frost covers the moss in the mornings like a million jewels scattered across the ground. She thinks of the wolves howling at night, of the ancient oak trees, and the fine-limbed deer leaping swiftly across the meadows.

”Yes,” she nods, ”the woods.”

They stand in silence for a while. The sun is rising, casting long rays of light across the sea, shining right through the taller waves giving them an unearthly green-blue glow. White gulls call from high above them, circling the ship in wide arches. The eastern wind is chilly, but not unpleasantly so. For just a fraction of a moment, Sansa finds herself quite content.

”Littlefinger will have men searching for you in every corner of Westeros, you know.” Sandor stares straight ahead as he speaks, his features betraying no emotion but for a slight twitch in the burnt corner of his mouth.

”I’m certain he will. He is nothing if not persistent.”

”May be you’d have been safer back in the Vale,” he rasps, still not looking at her.

She scoffs.

”Oh, I’m sure I would have been, trusting the man that dressed me up to play his daughter before he sold me to Harry. No, he might well have sold me to the Lannisters as well. And to think,” she adds, with a smile that is only half-bitter, ”he never even paid me.”

_That_ makes him react. He stares down at her in disbelief.

”You’re not some… _common whore,_ little bird.”

”You say that like it would be so terrible. You men are awfully glad of whores when you have coin to spend, only to turn on them as soon as you need to put another woman down.”

”You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She sighs, and leans over the railing to look at the water beneath.

”Perhaps not. Do you think today will be warm?”

—

She catches herself watching him more often than she’d like to admit. It’s strange. Every time she believes herself to know him, he turns into a different man entirely. In King’s Landing, he was rough and hateful, until suddenly he wasn’t, lifting her gently from her bed or wiping blood from her lip. When he turned up in the Vale, she was so sure his rage was gentled, that he’d become the man she always knew him to be deep down. Yes, the fury was still there, but he controlled it. He didn’t drink. Until he did drink, and bruised her shoulders. And the kiss— no. _Not yet_.

Still, he _would_ have stolen her away, unless she’d made him ask her.

_Would he, though? Even when he was frightened half to death and drunk beyond his senses, he let me stay. He didn’t force me to come with him_.

She’ll never tell him of how that was the first and last time in years that someone had heeded her wishes, and even years in the future, she might look back at that night and marvel at all the horrors that could have transpired, but didn’t.

Confusing a man though he may be, Sansa does not believe Sandor Clegane will let any harm come to her if he can prevent it. But that does not take away the broken trust between them and the paling bruises on her shoulders.

Her lip is healing well enough. She is glad there isn’t much to laugh about so that she doesn’t break it all over again. 

Her dye didn’t bite on the cloak as well as she’d hoped, and instead of dark brown it is now grey. It suits him, though, better than the white ever did. 

—

On the fourth day, the captain approaches her.

She’s seen him on deck, of course, a tall, rough-hewn man with short red hair and a beard. He might not be older than her father was when he died, but the elements have weathered this man’s face, and thin lines criss-cross over his skin like threads in a weave.

”Watch it so you don’t get caught in the wind and blown into the blue, girl. The two of you are trouble enough as it is.”

She is just about to inform him that she is no girl, not anymore, but instead she just turns from where she is leaning on the railing and offers a small smile.

”I’ll try to be careful, captain…?”

”Harritt,” he says gruffly.

”Harritt. I am Alayne. It’s quite lovely out here, isn’t it? Of course, you’re used to it, being on the sea so often.”

The man blinks. This is clearly not the conversation he expected to have. 

”View’s fine enough,” he says, looking slightly bewildered. ”At least, when the sea isn’t trying to swallow us whole.”

”I shall pray to the Smith to keep you and your crew safe on your travels.” Sansa smiles at him. ”Good day to you, captain Harritt.”

—

Night falls on the sixth day, and the lights from Duskendale glimmer in the distance. Sansa watches them from the bow of the ship with an unfamiliar wave of hope building in her chest. She is heading swiftly towards the unknown, but even stronger than the fear is the _thrill_ of finally putting one foot in front of the other. She had resigned herself to wait out the long winter in the Vale, but now she has cut up the seams of that safety. _I am grasping for the threads to weave my own story, at last_ , she thinks, and hears Sandor’s familiar uneven steps come up beside her.

”Captain says it’s an hour at most. We’re all set.”

She nods, and glances up at him. He’s wearing the cloak, and his sword is strapped to his belt.

”Did you…” He trails off. ”Nevermind. We’ll have to be careful. Your blond shit of a husband will have spread the word of you being missing by now.”

”Harry’s not— _that,”_ Sansa says almost instinctively.

”May be he’s not, but your lip bled all the same.”

With that, he turns and leaves her standing at the bow. The darkness thickens around her. For the first time in many years, Sansa wonders about true knights and honor.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Sandor V

She doesn't speak much, and perhaps that’s for the best. Every time she opens her mouth, Sandor fears the inevitable: the blame. He has accepted it already, in his mind, has hung it from his shoulders like a thick cloak in anticipation of her ire.

It never comes.

Six days on that ship, and she never once mentions what he did. How he hurt her. How he _failed_ her. He looks at her now, straight-backed with bravery and fear as she descends onto the docks of Duskendale. _”Keep her safe, that girl,”_ the captain told him before they left. _”She’s a sweet lass. Made a pretty figure-head for my Maelstrom.”_ Sandor never even saw her speak to the man. He finds himself wondering what it’s like, to shine so brightly as to inspire fondness from even hardened men of the sea. But he’ll never know, of course, and he’s made his peace with that.

They creep through a dark Duskendale like thieves in the night. Stranger is high-strung and jittery after a week under deck, and at first, Sandor doesn’t dare lift her into the saddle. But she is tired and stumbling, and at last he gives in. _Don’t let her fall, you stupid beast,_ he thinks, leading the horse by the reins. No need to tire him out before they’re even out of the city. Sandor risks a quick glance up at her, thinking they must be quite the sight. A great hulking man, leading a vicious beast on which a lady sits, straight-backed and proud. A rather different song from the one found her in all those weeks ago, the song of a lady surrounded by fair knights.

_Piss on that,_ he thinks, _those same knights would have gladly sold her out by now_. And perhaps, this time, he believes it.

—

”Have you traveled this way before?” Her voice breaks the silence around them. They sit next to each other, in front of the small fire she managed to light from what damp wood the forest has to offer. 

”No,” he says simply, because it’s the only thing he can think of, and it is the truth.

He thinks he can hear her give a small sigh, but it’s hard to see in the dark. She surveys the trees around them, almost as if she’s politely regarding courtiers in a great hall somewhere.

”Isn’t it—” she begins, but he interrupts her:

”Look, we’re in the bloody woods, girl, we’re eating from pieces of bark. Save me your courtesies.”

She raises an eyebrow. It always catches him by surprise that she can do that.

”Would you rather I stay silent? Yes, how about I sit here and _glower_ instead, like you do?”

”I don’t—”

”For someone who was ready to drag me kicking and screaming from the Vale, you’re doing a spectacular job at pretending you’d rather be alone.”

_Ah. There it is_.

”And what did you expect, little bird? Look at me,” he says, and almost flinches at his own words. She’s already looking. ”What do you see? A gallant knight? No. This,” he points to his burnt cheek, ”is fucking _monstrous.”_

She tilts her head and looks at him for a long moment. Then, to his shock, she leans towards him and very gently puts a warm hand on his ruined cheek.

”Yes,” she says softly, and he feels his heart sink. ”It is, and I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry that you fill in for the part of your own nightmares so very well, and I’m sorry that others believe you when you tell them what you think you are. But, Sandor, I have met many men who are monsters, and you are not one of them.”

Not for the first time, she has him at a loss for words. Her hand is still on his cheek, and to his shame, his vision is turning blurry. Perhaps noticing this, she lowers her hand and turns her eyes on the fire once more.

”I made you cry,” he manages at last. His voice is hoarse.

”Many people have made me cry. Even people who I—” She looks at her hands. ”It doesn’t mean anything.”

_Yes it does,_ he wants to scream, _don’t you see? I thought I was changed and I was wrong. I tried to be better and I failed. It’s all you need to know_.

But he says nothing, and as the fire burns ever lower, the darkness deepens around them.

Lying on his cloak later in the night, he listens to her even breathing. _She doesn’t think I’m a monster_. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

—

She is discontent. He can tell from her distant gaze, from how she keeps stroking the rough material of her stolen dress and sigh. And why shouldn’t she be? He stole her away from her pretty song, from her pretty dresses and her pretty husband. _She came willingly,_ he tells himself, _and that pretty husband made her bleed_. Still, she cannot have been prepared for the woods. _He_ was barely prepared, and he’s been on the run before. The trees here are ancient, gnarly things, twisted by wind and time. Thick moss covers every rock on the ground, and even the low-hanging branches are heavy with it. Sometimes, they can barely see the sky above them for the dense foliage.

They’re already low on food, and he worries about that. He was never very proficient as a hunter, being that second sons are not as favored hunting companions for their fathers as the firstborn ones. No, Gregor was the one who brought home game, bragging about his prowess. For all the good it did their father.

On the third day, they reach an abandoned croft with a caved-in roof in a clearing. The carcass of a goat or sheep lies by the wall of a small barn, still tethered to the wall by a mouldering rope.

”I’ll have a look around, see if there’s any grain left in that barn. Why don’t you pick some nettles from that old dunghill? They make a decent soup.” He gestures to a small hill at the far end of the clearing, overgrown with wild nettles. She stares at him, incredulous.

”Them?” She asks. ”But they’re grown from…” she lowers her voice even as she straightens her back, every inch a lady, ”…from _waste.”_

He can’t help but throw his head back and laugh.

”What did you think things grew from, little bird? Even your pretty flowers bloom from waste and death.”

Her face reddens, and she stomps off towards the dunghill, apparently too indignant to take offense at being ordered around.

”Be careful,” he shouts after her, laughter still in his voice, ”they sting.”

There’s nothing edible to be found in the barn. Dust covers every surface. A broken wooden plough stands leaned against the wall, and various tools he does not know the name of are scattered across the floor. He doesn’t even bother to look around. Outside, he circles the croft until he finds the root cellar. He feels the door and it creaks. He gives a sharp pull, perhaps too sharp, because it falls off its hinges and down onto the ground. Well. _It’s not as if anyone’s still using it_.

Sandor peers inside the cellar, eyes slowly getting used to the dark. Large brown spiders creep away from the light spilling onto the floor, and cocoons heavy with their eggs hang from the ceiling. An involuntary shudder of disgust goes through his body at the sight. Ducking his head away from the cocoons, he heads inside. On a shelf the corner, he finds a small pouch of hazelnuts, and beneath it a crate of onions. He takes the ones that are still good, and leaves the damp cellar.

The little bird carries the nettles in her skirt to the camp he’s set up at the edge of the clearing, but he can see that her hands are red with small swollen bumps along her fingers. It looks as wrong on her as the dress does. _Not as wrong as the bruises and welts she got in King’s Landing,_ he reminds himself. _Not as wrong as her head on a spike if I’d left her to be sold out to the Lannisters_. Unbidden, images of could-have’s and almosts flood his mind, and it’s all he can do not to wince at the horror. _She is here, dog. She is warm and breathing and_ angry _._

And she is. Her tense movements as she lets the nettles fall into a pile in front of him tells him of her ire. She huffs and snatches the onions from his hand when he holds two out to her, and sits down to start cutting it with her knife in glowering silence. It’s such a stark contrast to the dread in his mind that he almost laughs from the relief. But he knows better than that by now, and keeps his silence.

She is very bad at cutting. It’s apparent from the awkward way she holds the knife, and the uneven onion chunks that falls into the iron pot he found in the croft. For some strange reason, this gives him a sense of comfort. He’s never seen her do anything with less than impeccable results, and now here she is, face scrunched up in concentration over an _onion_. From a life of comfort, being proficient at everything that can be expected from her, and into this. She _would_ be angry. It makes him think of her sister, the one with rage seething behind every syllable she spoke, the little she-wolf. They could not be any less alike if they tried. The little bird moves like one of the does in the forest, gracefully, smoothly. Constantly aware of her surroundings, like one used to being hunted. And the she-wolf, well, she always moved like a killer. There was no way around that thought once it had settled in Sandor’s mind all those years ago in the Riverlands. Yes, she was small and seemingly harmless, but the way she looked at people sometimes; Sandor could tell. There would be no stopping her if she got it into her mind to put that belt knife of a sword into someone’s guts.

He should tell the little bird about that, he thinks, not for the first time.

Darkness has started to fall around them. He fills up the pot with water and puts the nettles in. _Should’ve brought some salt_. Every soldier knows how to make nettle soup. When rations begin to thin out during campaigns, you start to look for other ways to fill your stomach. Nettles are filling enough, and they grow everywhere like weeds. Clover will do in a pinch. If there’s no almond milk available, some ale can do wonders for the taste. He knows some men even make a simple bread from crushed bark, but that’s always seemed like more trouble than it’s worth.

Sandor watches her struggle with the second onion, but doesn’t reach out to help her. She still flinches away from him with every sudden movement, and he’d rather not be reminded again of what he did. 

Her lip is healed by now, with no trace of what happened. Not that he _knows_ what happened. But there are a thousand stories in his mind about it, and he hopes none of them are true. She’s never even confirmed that it was Ser Harrold that did it, but there’s really no other candidate. Any man other than her husband would have lost the hand he struck her with. 

They eat in silence, and he wonders again how he should tell her of the time he spent with her sister. _Best not give her hope in vain, dog. The little she-wolf is surely dead by now_. But he cannot stop thinking of how she believes herself alone in the world, when there’s a chance her sister is alive. _If there was any hope for me to see my sister again, would I forgive the man that kept her secret from me?_ Sandor is so used to being alone by now that he hardly has an answer to that. He thinks of his mother, of her gentle smile, and his sister, so full of hope and dreams until she wasn’t. He thinks of his father, a kind but weak man, and that weakness was what turned him cruel in the end.

—

The next day, they set out with the first light. She sits in front of him on Stranger as usual, and it’s odd how natural it seems to him by now. On occasion, she will touch his arm to steady herself, and it’s a touch as light and urgent as a feather against his skin, even through the layers of clothing. 

Around midday, they come by a clear stream, too bright and babbling to resist.

”Can we stop?” she says, and he knows she means _can I finally wash?_

He’s seen her work through her tresses with a bone comb and sigh, has seen her collect dew-filled leaves to wash her face. He looks around. The ground is flat around them, the trees a little less dense than usual. It’s not safe. But her blue eyes are on him, and he knows that if he looks down to meet them he’ll say yes anyway, and so he agrees. He tethers Stranger to a low-hanging branch and lifts her from the saddle.

”All right. But I’ll have to stay here and keep watch, you know.”

”Oh no, you don’t,” she says and pokes him square in the chest with a long pale finger. ”Give a lady some privacy.”

He looks down at her finger. _That’s where the heart is. That’s how you kill a man_. 

”Can’t keep you safe and give you privacy, little bird. It’s one or the other.”

She only raises an eyebrow.

In the end, he agrees to stay close enough that he can hear the stream, but keeps his back to it. He wouldn’t dare turn around. He can hear the rustle of her clothes being removed, and her shrill shriek when she enters the cold water. There’s splashing, as well, and soon he hears her voice again:

”It’s really not so bad once you’re in!”

She sounds… carefree. Without thinking, he brings his hand up to his chest, where he imagines he can still feel the warmth from her finger.

When it’s Sandor’s turn, he has to disagree. He’s already dipped his entire body three times and it’s _still_ freezing. Hurrying up from the water again, wet and cold and miserable, he looks at her where she stands with her back to him, straight and tense with her knife in her hand. Her dyed hair hangs in a long damp braid down her back.

”Lucky we didn’t get attacked,” he says before he can stop himself. ”You’re still holding that knife wrong.”

”I’d like to see you stitch a dress, see how well you do,” she snaps. ”We can’t all be fighters. I’m not Arya.”

It’s the first time he’s heard her say that name. _It’s now or never._ He reaches for his tunic and takes a deep breath. Perhaps it’ll be easier when she’s not looking at him.

”About that sister of yours, little bird…”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! It's been a very hectic week for me.  
> Also, nettle soup is actually pretty delicious if done well, but Sansa is right, you really shouldn't pick nettles from dunghills. They contain too much nitrogen :) (just a lil PSA from your friendly local fanfic author with an oddly specific interest in medieval cuisine!)


	15. Crone

Sharra takes one final look at the boy before she pulls the shroud over his face for the last time. The seventh day is over, and he will be laid to rest at last. Silent sisters carry him from the sept, and though there’s six of them, they seem to be struggling. He was a tall, handsome boy when he was alive. Now, he’s just a heavy lump of flesh.

_Old age has made me morbid,_ she thinks. _Perhaps this is the curse of aging: watching the young perish while lingering like an old, disused rag in the corner_. Old septas are little more than mementos to lords and ladies, old crones to remind them of their childhood. Even little Randa rarely asks for Sharra’s advice, or, indeed, her company, these days. Sharra’s gaze falls on the girl, a lady now, where she stands beneath the statue of the Crone, hugging herself. Myranda’s face is pale, though her eyes are dry. Something old tugs at Sharra’s heart, and she makes her way over to the girl and puts her arm around her shoulder.

”There, sweetling, you should come come back to the keep. Don’t let the dead make you sick when there’s a life to be lived.”

Randa gives her a small, watery smile.

”You told me that when mother died. Oh, Sharra, how I wish she was still with me in times like these.” Carefully, the girl rests her head on Sharra’s thin shoulder. Thick chestnut curls fall freely to cover her face, and Sharra gently brushes them away.

”They say he was stabbed in the back,” Randa says quietly. ”They say ser Lyn murdered him in his own chambers. I hate ser Lyn, Sharra, I know you said it’s not very ladylike to hate, but I do hate him so _very_ much.” The last word is almost drowned out by a sob.

Something stops Sharra from telling the girl that as far as anyone can tell, ser Lyn defeated young Harrold fair and square, and Harrold died with his sword in hand. It was one of the maids that found him in the early hours of the morning, sprawled by the base of the stairs of the Falcon Tower.

”Ser Lyn is dead, sweetling.”

”I know. Father told me not to go down to the gate but I had to see. Hanging was too kind a death for that weasel of a man.”

Sharra wants to reprimand the girl for her harsh words, but she cannot bring herself to do it. She has called the knight far worse things in the privacy of her thoughts. To coldly betray them all in such a way, to attempt to hand over the wife of his ally to the enemy… It is a testament to ser Harrold’s honor that he returned to stand guard at the Falcon Tower as soon as gold was offered in exchange for his lady wife, and a tragedy beyond thinking that he died in vain. Sharra never knew lady Sansa, but she remembers that air she carried herself with, cold and hiding an immense grief. She was a proud creature, and who knows what that brute has done to her by now. He has not given her to the Crown, at least, since the soldiers are still at the Bloody Gate, not trusting lord Baelish's word that lady Sansa is nowhere to be found.

”I wonder what became of your friend,” says Sharra.

”I can’t believe she left.” Randa lifts her head from Sharra’s shoulder, and there is anger in her eyes now. ”I can’t believe he died for her, and she _left_.”

”We don’t know that she went willingly,” Sharra tries to placate the girl.

”Do you truly believe Clegane would hurt her? I saw the way he looked at her. She had both Harry and that beast of a man after her like a pair of green lads in love and she just…” Randa trails off, poor grief-struck girl, and shudders with a sob. ”I hope she’s safe.”

”Me too, sweetling. Me too.”

Sharra gives the girl’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, and Randa allows herself to be led from the sept. The air is still heavy with the scented oils the Silent Sisters use to mask the stench of death, and the light is dim. Outside, a mild breeze ripples through the Autumn evening, and in the distance, above the western gate, Sharra can see ser Lyn’s body sway from the scaffold.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, I killed Harry. s/o to SassyEggs, who called it way back in chapter 7!


	16. Sansa VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Which The Author Takes Some Serious Artistic Liberties With Interpreting Westerosi Religious Customs
> 
> (there is a passage in which disabled and injured characters are referred to with rather ableist language. please note that this is to reflect the character's viewpoints, not my own, but if anyone thinks I should change it please let me know and I will!)

_About your sister_ …

Sansa stands as still as the morning through his story. She stares into the forest ahead and imagines Arya, _Arya,_ Arya at the Twins just a hair’s width from the slaughter, Arya killing a man, Arya _not_ killing Sandor…

”Little bird?”

His voice reaches her through some haze, and she realizes she’s crying. _Arya could still be alive_. Her breath catches in her throat and she spins around, knowing as she does so that she breaks some silent agreement they made. Talking. No looking.

He sits on the ground like a child, resting his chin on the top of his knees. His damp hair has formed wet stains on his tunic that stretch down his back. He doesn’t seem to care. But he looks up at her when she turns, surprised and perhaps a little frightened, and she rushes to his side and falls to her knees beside him.

”Please.” Unthinking, she has taken his large, calloused hand in her own, pleading. ”Please, do you know where she went? What did she say when she left? Did she ask about me? What did you tell her?”

He shifts uncomfortably and will not meet her gaze. She pulls his hand closer.

”Please, you _must tell me.”_

”Get up, little bird. Don’t share the ground with the likes of me.”

She doesn’t understand: they’ve been sitting on the ground every evening together. But she has more urgent things on her mind. A coldness grows in her chest, and she lets go of his hand as though it burns her.

”You’re keeping something from me. Why haven’t you told me of this? For _weeks_ you’ve been by my side, and not a single word of my sister have you given me. Why?”

He doesn’t answer at first, and she gets on her feet to pace the ground in front of him, and shoulders the immense weight of her birth and titles.

”Answer me. You cannot claim to serve me when you’ve already disobeyed my orders, _manhandled_ me and now, you refuse to tell me the truth.” She holds her head high as she has not felt the need to do here in the woods up until now. ”Answer me, Clegane. Why have you kept this from me?”

She looks down at him. He has straightened his back, and seems unsure of what to do with his hands. An age seems to have passed since they stopped at the stream, and the trees cast long shadows on the ground.

”I don’t know,” he says, and while she believes him, she is not satisfied. She stills, and looks at him until he has no choice but to meet her gaze.

”Sandor,” she says and wills her voice to be soft, ”please tell me.”

”I don’t know,” he says, eyes going cold. The burnt corner of his mouth twitches as he adds, _”My lady.”_

She is hurt, and angry, and can’t decide which is worse. He has no right to take offense at her ordering him after all that he’s done, but then, perhaps she can no longer assume his obedience. Perhaps she never could. He is a Hound no longer, and even the Hound disobeyed his masters in the end. _And went straight to my chambers_.

Arya was always the one to excel in their mathematics lessons with Maester Luwin, but Sansa can put two and two together well enough. This man came back for her. Even after years apart, he came back for her, and he’s all but sworn to protect her. He kissed her.

Sansa knows that she is beautiful; it has long been one of the few certainties in her life. No matter how dutiful, clever, or kind she tries to be, it is always her beauty that is praised. Since her father died, every man that has helped her has wanted a piece of her for himself. Before that night in the Falcon Tower, however, Sansa never believed Sandor would act on any of it. But by wine and anger he did, and now that line has been crossed. There is no going back, and Sansa is left to wonder if her beauty is all he sees. It is certainly all Harry ever saw, and the same can be said of Petyr. She has never questioned it; after all, King Robert loved the beautiful Lyanna, and Sansa’s lord father loved her mother, and lady Catelyn was very beautiful indeed. Florian gazed upon Jonquil’s incandescent beauty and fell in love. _I saw the golden locks and emerald eyes of a prince and was lost_. 

And yet. And yet she cannot help but wonder; does Sandor care about her kindness? Would he be proud if she proved herself clever? Does he hold any regard for dutiful women? Would he think her silly if she told him that every time he touches her, it sends her heart fluttering like an aspen-leaf in the slightest breeze? But she’ll never tell him, because of what he did, and because of Harry. What kind of woman would Sansa be if she went and did the same thing she condemned her husband for? And though she tries to forget, it’s still there: his grip on her shoulders, his cruel mouth on hers. The sharp pain in her lip. Sometimes, in her mind, the light from her window turns green as she remembers, but she knows now that he never kissed her before. She would have remembered. It would have felt _familiar,_ if no less frightening. She would have been prepared.

And now, she knows he’s a liar.

Without a word, she walks over to his warhorse and waits for him to understand. She regrets that she needs him to lift her into the saddle now that she’s upset with him, but there’s nothing to be done about that.

She can hear him scramble to his feet, and soon, they are on their way again.

—

The Mother’s Festival catches up with them a week later. Dusk is just starting to creep through the woods as they hear voices rising and falling in concordance with a melody. Sansa can hear no instruments playing, only the chant-like song echoing eerily between the trees. Without a word, Sansa lays a hand flat on Sandor’s chest and looks up at him, the compelling music drawing her, but he has already turned his horse towards the sound. Before long, glimmering lights appear between the trees ahead. 

The settlement they reach is by a stream, and one might even call it a village. Aside from the dozen or so campsites, there are five permanent houses, all set around a large ash tree that is decorated with ribbons for the occasion.

Beneath the tree stands the offering-cart, draped with fabric and festooned in flowers. The singers, a handful of men and women, moves around the cart as they sing. Soon, drummers join the singers in the circle, and the sound is almost overwhelming as Sansa and Sandor dismount to join the group of spectators. Too many people have journeyed to the settlement for the festival for anyone to take any notice of the strange pair they make. The people here are clearly dressed in their finery, and those who have no braided gold for their brow wear wreaths of flowers on their heads. Sansa studies the faces of these people whom, had her life gone as intended, she would have never known existed. By war or toil, many of them are damaged. An old, one-eyed man leans heavily on his wife’s shoulder as he watches the dancers. A young girl steadies herself on a crutch, one foot oddly bandaged and angled wrong. Hardly anyone gives Sandor’s scarred face a second glance. He must notice that, and she is happy for him.

Sansa is confused. In the North, the festivals of the Seven are not widely celebrated, but of what she has seen so far of the Faith here in the South, this is very different. This is no high-roofed sept with burning candles and preaching septons. Mother’s Festivals in the Vale were always rather solemn affairs. This is strange, and somehow… primeval. It reminds her of the North.

This close she can see a septa by the cart who is neither singing nor dancing. She simply stands, with one hand rested protectively on one of the cart wheels. _She will lead our offerings to the Mother,_ Sansa thinks. Septa Mordane taught Sansa about how the Faith is practiced in the South, but she had always stressed the responsibilities of the lady of the keep during the holidays. But this is no keep. There are no ladies here in the woods. _None but me_. 

She soon forgets all about differing religious practices, however. The dancers and drummers are joined by pipers, and as the cluster of spectators starts to sway and stomp with the rhythm, Sansa feels compelled to join them. It’s been so long since she danced. And before she knows it she is being drawn along into a greater ring, twirling and laughing with the others, losing her footing, stumbling, finding her way back into the circle. She is being twirled and passed from one man’s arms to the next so quickly it takes her quite a while to figure out the steps. It’s an odd dance, quick and joyful. It is exhilarating, moving with the other dancers in a frantic, pulsing ring, as if they are but one creature breathing the rhythm of the drums. Sansa hardly notices the faces of the men grabbing her by the waist to twirl her along, holding her arms, hands, wrists, whatever they can catch onto as they swiftly pass each other by in the circle that is now looping and intertwining, a long, breathing ribbon coiling around the great ash tree.

It’s Sandor, of course, who breaks the spell over her. She catches his eye just as a short, stocky young man grabs her by her waist to twirl her along, only he doesn’t, this is a different dance altogether and she is not ready, cannot keep moving as the man’s broad hands roam over her back while Sandor’s gaze is locked with hers. Her companion is standing where she left him outside the circle. Someone fills his cup and he drinks deeply as Sansa loses her footing, is caught by the stocky man who is whispering something in her ear, laughing, but the music consumes all other sounds and she cannot make out the words. She is pressed flush against him and has trouble regaining her foothold as she pushes against his chest to steady herself, by herself, away from him. The music has slowed and the crowd is now milling around them, paying the pair no heed as they go in search for food and drink. The stocky man laughs even harder, and she cannot say if the sounds that escape his mouth are words. His ale-drenched breath washes over her as she turns to face him to _push_. He stumbles, finally, and lets go of her. Sansa is suddenly afraid. But the anger that flares over the man’s face is soon gone, and the laughter returns, this time aimed at something behind her. Sansa turns and there Sandor is, staring down at the man and putting his hand on her shoulder in a way that makes her feel like this is not about her anymore. With Sandor’s hand on her she is somehow no longer Sansa, a laughing woman in the dance, but some non-person, a fine horse for only its owner to ride and for others to envy. _But I am done with my tether_ , she thinks, and indignantly pushes the large hand off her shoulder, scowls up at Sandor, and storms off into the crowd.

She can hear her companion’s rough voice give a shout after her, but her pride keeps her from glancing back. She pushed the man off _herself_. She decided to join the dance on her _own_. Sandor Clegane has no right to lay claim to the consequences of her actions.

When she calms down somewhat she finds herself by a group of young men, farm hands and stable boys, carrying caskets of ale and plates of meat and bread to a large white canopy behind the biggest house. Long tables are set up beneath it, around a large fire. The crowd has thinned out somewhat, and she can see most of the revelers moving to sit at the tables. The tables look hastily put together, some are just several short tables standing in a row, and instead of benches there are long tree trunks laid down along the tables. Sansa hesitates, not certain if she, a stranger, is welcome to join the feast. She cannot speak like the commoners. She’s tried, and Sandor has always laughed at her. But she makes her decision, and makes for the canopy. _We’re all of the forest here. As long as I stay silent they won’t notice._

Her bravery disappears, however, as soon as a hand is laid on her shoulder. She turns to meet the eyes of a girl wearing an apron over a worn dress. _This is it_ , she thinks, _time to leave_. Sansa almost throws up her hands in defeat as she turns to leave. The grip on her shoulder hardens, though, and she turns back, annoyed. Sansa had been grabbed enough this evening. But before she can do anything, the girl moves her grip to her wrist and drags her along. Sansa follows, bewildered and just the slightest bit frightened. They girl leads her to the corner of the canopy where several women are still working on the decorations, tying garlands and laying wreaths of flowers out on the tables. _Do I look like a kitchen girl? Does she think she’s dragging me back to work?_ The girl talks quickly and quietly to another woman who looks at Sansa and smiles, of all things. Then there is something touching Sansa’s head, and when she flinches, the servants laugh. She reaches to feel her head and finds that the girl has placed a flower wreath on it. Uncertain, she smiles, but dares not speak.

”There, _now_ you look like you’re celebrating.” The girl smiles at her. ”Here, let me fill your cup.”

The girl gestures to Sansa’s belt where the crude birch bark cup Sandor helped her make hangs from her belt. Sansa loosen it and lets the girl fill her cup, before she moves to find a place at the long tables.

Sansa sneaks in between two women at the closest table. She sips her sour-tasting ale and takes stock of her surroundings. The food she saw the young men carry is nowhere to be seen, there’s nothing but drinking cups and flowers on the tables. The people around her are a mixed group, families and elders, even a group of young women. This was nothing like she would have imagined a commoner’s festival, if she’d ever have done so. Septa Mordane taught Sansa that one was to be kind to the smallfolk, but not to trust them. A lady has no business being amongst peasants. _She would be so cross if she could see me now, unaccompanied with my hair loose among commoners in the woods._

There is a high table she can barely make out at the end of the canopy. A group of children are playing on the ground behind her table. Some men start laughing heartily on the other end of the canopy. A small girl falls over as she tried to climb the bench to sit on her mother’s lap. The mother picks up the crying child, holding her close and whispering soothing words in her ear. A man sitting opposite them, whom Sansa presumed is the father, reaches across the table to pluck a strand of grass from the child’s hair and wipe a tear from her cheek. It all seems far too… _orderly_. These are not the peasants Septa Mordane warned her about. Just as she starts to consider leaving, she feels movement beside her on the bench. The woman to her left scoots over to make room for Sandor’s large frame as he climbs over the trunk-bench to sit beside Sansa. She gives him a small nod of recognition, ignoring their earlier quarrel. It is how they have learned to stand each other’s company, and mostly, it works. This time, however, Sandor only stares stonily at her hair. Or rather, at the wreath upon it.

”You make that yourself?” He asks with badly feigned nonchalance.

”It was given to me.”

Sandor closes his eyes and sighs in an infuriatingly superior way. When he speaks, he does so slowly, as if he is addressing a child. ”This is not the frilly court you’re used to, little bird. Things are different, here. The _rules_ are different. You can’t go accepting flowers from any man who - ”

”It wasn’t from a man.” Sansa cuts him off, louder than she intends to, but the chatter around the table is loud enough that no-one takes notice. ”And what do you know of the smallfolk? You spent more time at court than I ever did,” she adds, very quietly, but indignant nonetheless. He only shrugs. They speak no more on the matter.

Some commotion at the high table catches her attention. The septa has arrived to stand at the center of it. Sansa can just make out her upped body above the rows of people, but cannot hear what the woman is saying. She can guess, though, but it is usually a septon who speaks the Mother’s Prayer. It seems somehow more fitting to have a woman speak the words. A rustling spreads along the tables as everybody scrambles to get up. Sansa stands and sends a hesitating glance towards Sandor. Accidentally or otherwise his arm is touching hers until he lifts it to rest his hand on her shoulder, and this time, she finds that she doesn’t mind. Finally, they all lift their cups and drink to the Mother. Beginning at the high table, they all then follow the septa back to the ash tree and the cart, to once again stand around it. Two of the young men appear, this time holding the chains of a large animal, something like cattle but bigger, hairier, with longer horns. It looks a savage beast compared to the docile animals she saw on farms along the Kingsroad when she was a girl. It makes a sound, a deep bellow from somewhere beneath all that ragged fur and swelling muscle. _A primeval beast for a primeval Mother_. The septa moves like something rippling, like soft silk in summer, as she raises a long knife. 

As one, the crowd begins to sing.

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy_

_Save our sons from war we pray_

The blade glistens in the firelight, and she drives it straight into the animal’s thick neck. 

_Stay the swords and stay the arrows_

_Let them know a better day_

The beast thrashes and just has time to make a short, strangled sound before it twitches violently and collapses on the ground, blood welling from its wound like a black flood after the septa wrenched the knife loose. 

_Gentle Mother, strength of women_

_Help our daughters through this fray_

Immediately, three more men appear and together they all pull the chains over a thick branch and hoist the animal up until it hangs from the tree like a criminal. It’s odd, seeing the powerful beast strung up, dangling in an unsettling imitation of fragility.

_Soothe the wrath and tame the fury_

_Teach us all a kinder way_

The hymn ends, and Sansa realizes she’s sung along with the crowd. The singing is the same, at least, and she takes comfort in that. But the animal… Once again, she is reminded of the North. She remembers Old Nan’s tales of the Long Night, when people would make living sacrifices to the Old Gods in front of the heart tree. Every time Sansa stood before the old weirwood in Winterfell’s godswood, she had been reminded, thinking: _We killed our own here. We killed cattle and children and crones in a hallowed place, where couples come to be wed, to be blessed by the gods_. She had not understood desperation then.

Meat and bread is put in the cart for the Mother, and the crowd forms a line, waiting to make their offerings. Sansa knows this part well. Every person states their name and the nature of their offering, and the septon, or, septa in this instance, accepts it for the Mother and puts it in the cart. Sansa cannot state her name, and she cannot lie to the Mother. Giving Sandor a meaning glance, she moves to wait on the other side of the great tree. He follows. She puts her hand on the great trunk of the tree and trails her fingers against it as she walks, just as she used to do with the heart tree in Winterfell. This tree does not feel like a heart tree. True places of worship have always felt like a presence near and all around her, like a warmth just reaching her skin. Like the presence of Sandor behind her on the horse. _Comforting,_ she realizes to her surprise. _And at once frightening_. But it is not the fear of howls in the woods or the screams she has come to associate with death, but the reminder of something bigger than her, something she can neither control nor measure. Like singing in a sept, or being enveloped in her mother’s arms while words of affection were being whispered into her ear. 

She thinks she understands, just a bit, how this strange celebration came to be. It’s in places like this, places where no trade roads reach, where the world is vast and rich and dark, that change can never fully take form. The fear of the Old Gods’ wrath still lingers in the woods, and so the people never dared to forget them. Sansa strokes the bark of the ash tree. _They had no weirwood anymore, and so they hallowed you instead_.

”We should go,” comes Sandor’s voice from behind her. ”Find a place to make camp. It’s already dark.”

She turns quickly, and looks up at him.

”Can we not stay? There’s a campsite already. We could join the revelers, just for tonight. Please.”

He looks at her as though the thought never occurred to him, but she saw him eye the tents and bedrolls down by the stream when they arrived. Being around so many people after all this time alone in the woods has filled her with something she didn’t know she had been missing. Just for one night, she wants to pretend there is no war, no Petyr, no husband, no ruin where her ancestral home once stood. She wants to drink sour ale and dance.

”I don’t know if that’s very wise, little bird.” He casts a glance back to where his horse is tethered. But when she takes him gently by the arm and leads him back towards the canopy, he follows without objection.

”You are drinking,” she says as they join the others heading back to the tables.

”So’re you,” he rasps.

”I thought you didn’t… Nevermind.”

They seat themselves opposite each other at the end of the furthest table, and as soon as everyone’s once again seated, the food is carried out at last. Sansa realizes she is starving.

This is no fine feast in a great hall, but compared to what they’ve had to eat so far in the woods, the food is wonderful. There’s salted mutton, caramelized onions, honeyed bread and goat cheese. There are even mushrooms and fresh carrots. Sansa fills her plate and revels in the freedom of not sitting at the high table, of not having dozens of pairs of eyes follow her every movement and expect her to paint a perfect picture of ladyhood. She has always taken her role seriously, of course, but for once, it feels incredible to soak up the verjuice on her plate with a piece of bread. 

They eat in silence, far too hungry to bother with conversation. She has mentally prepared herself for the noises he will make gobbling up his meal, but to her surprise finds that he keeps what no doubt passes for decent table manners in his mind. She sneaks a glance up at him, and catches him actually cutting his meat instead of biting off chunks as she has witnessed far too many soldiers do. She is puzzled, but relieved that he has chosen to restrain himself on this of all evenings. The torches around the canopy cast a warm, soft light, and shadows dance along the tables. A piper plays by the high table, a merry tune mingled with the pleasant hum of laughter and conversation. Perhaps the sour ale has already gone to her head, because there is a warmth in her cheeks and in her chest that makes her feel quite… _content_. 

Naturally, Sandor chooses this moment to let go of his manners to lick his fingers clean of honey dripping from his bread. Fascinated, she follows the movement of his mouth and hand, trails her gaze along his long, broad fingers. He must have noticed her sudden stillness, because his eyes find hers while the tip of his index finger still in his mouth. A slow grin spreads over his features, and it’s so cocky and carefree that even the burnt side of his face seems to light up with it.

Perhaps she should be embarrassed by being caught staring, but tonight, she cannot bring herself to feel shame. She only stares right back at him. _Oh no, Sandor Clegane. You would bring me as much guilt as you’d do pleasure_. There is a troubling amount of regret mingled with that thought. With a sigh, she resumes her meal and takes comfort in the fact that he is clearly verging on drunk as well, if that grin of his is anything to go by. 

—

The food is gone from the tables, but the ale is flowing freely. Somehow, after he got up to refill both their cups, Sandor has ended up next to Sansa. Another man has taken his old spot opposite her, but he barely glances at them. The piper still plays, joined by a singer, and some dozen people dance in the middle of the canopy, around the large fire. The other revelers have spread out along the tables, and some have already gone to bed. _And some,_ Sansa thinks, _have found new beds to share_. With so many young people and so much ale and music, it is inevitable, Sansa has learned. But back in the Vale, at least people had the decency to be more or less discreet about it. She watches a young man and woman down the table as they talk, faces almost as close as to be touching, and sees the man stroke the woman’s hair with something like wonder in his eyes.

The scene tugs at something within Sansa, and if she didn’t know better, she’d think she’s missing Harry. And she does miss him, in a way, misses his arms around her and his mouth on her neck. Especially watching all these young couples blissfully throw consequence to the wind, too caught up in the joys of living to worry about the cost of it. Sansa wonders if she shall ever afford to be so carefree.

Some distant part of her knows she is being reckless, of course. At some level, she is fully aware of the danger they’re in, among all these strangers. But the music is sweet in her ears, the torchlight warm and comforting, and though she knows it to be a lie, she feels quite safe. With a smile on her face, she pulls her knees up under her chin, placing her feet on the edge of the bench. It comes naturally, then, to lean her shoulder ever so lightly against Sandor’s broad frame beside her. He says something, and the vibrations from his chest makes it simply impossible for her not to lean her head on his shoulder and close her eyes, just for a bit.

”Don’t fall asleep here, little bird. ’S not safe.”

”The Mother will protect us,” she says drowsily, mostly to convince herself that she may sleep.

He laughs, and the rumble in his chest makes her smile again.

”You, perhaps, but I’m sure she’d be more than happy to condemn me. I’ve no protection from the gods.”

”Oh, but I’ve prayed for you, S’ndor Clegane. She’ll keep you safe for me.” Eyes still closed, she lifts her hand to pat his chest reassuringly.

He says nothing, and as the nothing draws on she worries she’s said something wrong. Concerned, she peers up at him.

He is looking at her, smiling, but his eyes are too soft, too wet, and it frightens her to be responsible for that.

”Hells, girl,” he says simply. ”It’s you that’ll either condemn or absolve me.”

She stares at him, but no explanation is offered. The corner of his mouth twitches, and with that surprising gentleness of his, he extracts himself, gets up, and helps her get to her feet. They both sway slightly.

”Let’s get to bed, little bird.”

_Yes,_ she thinks, _let’s_. She imagines how it would feel to be enveloped by the vastness of him, how… _No_. It would only be cruel. But she’s not certain if it’s herself or him she’s concerned about.

”Yes,” she says. ”Let’s go to sleep.”

—

They clumsily manage to arrange their bedrolls next to each other. _For safety,_ she thinks, _there are so many strangers here_. Finally able to collapse, she does so without even braiding her hair. She can feel him fall onto his bed next to her. The torchlight does not reach the camp, and she is glad, because she lies on her side, facing him.

The music can still be heard, though, and laughter from the canopy. She lies listening, hearing it mingle with the sounds of the woods, and lets herself drift further from consciousness.

”Good night, Sandor,” she whispers, so quietly it’s almost just a breath.

She hears him let out a long breath, and tentatively, a large hand reaches until it touches her hair.

”Sansa.”

As if on cue, the hand relaxes, and his breathing turns even. But now she is reluctant to let herself fall asleep, and wake up to a new day of endless travel. And she knows that when she does wake up, it’ll be as if nothing happened. As if they were never so bare to each other as just now, as if he never whispered her name like it’s a godsdamned prayer.

When sleep finally claims her, dawn has started to creep through the woods.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mother's Festival in this chapter is loosely based on ancient germanic worship of the mother-goddess Nerthus as described by Tacitus in his _Germania_ , as well as how in Scandinavia, Christian holidays have mingled with those of the Old Norse religion.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, I have been very excited about it since I first started writing this fic! Thank you all for reading, and for your lovely comments!


	17. Sandor VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late. To be perfectly honest I've been feeling pretty shit about my writing lately, and while I intend to continue and finish this story, it's going very slowly. I am **very** grateful to all of you lovely people for reading and commenting, and I will try to catch up on answering as soon as I am able to  <3
> 
> I hope you like this chapter :)

He wakes to a quiet world.

The sky is clear and pale, and his face is wet with morning dew. There is no more music or laughter, but the warmth by his side is still there. Slowly, he turns his head, and finds her curled into a ball beside him, her forehead just touching his shoulder. Perhaps this should evoke something in him, some memory of intimacy; but the truth is, this is no touch he is familiar with. It is, perhaps, accidental, but her entire posture is so leaned into that small point of contact that he refuses to believe so. She is a tangle of skirts, darkened hair and safe warmth beside him, and she is close to him because she wants to, because she feels safe enough to fall asleep next to him.

_She was drunk, dog_.

That cruel old voice inside him is not wrong, but it’s not stirring his self-loathing, either. _Yes, she was drunk,_ he thinks. _She knew there was only me here to protect her, and she got drunk._ It’s something.

His entire body stiffens when he feels her move beside him. Suddenly that small spot of contact is gone, and he lifts himself up on one elbow. He casts a quick glance around the camp, which is still quiet, before he looks down at her beside him.

The little bird’s body wakes first, stretching and turning like one of the cats lying on the sun-warmed cobblestones of the Red Keep. It’s not until she lies stretched out on her back that she slowly opens her eyes, blinking in the pale morning light. He is suddenly very aware that he has his ruined side facing her.

”’Morning, little bird.”

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t tense up, merely turns her gaze up at him and offers a small, tired smile.

”Good morning, Sandor.”

_When did she start calling me that?_ It sounds so unfamiliar to his ears, and that bothers him a little. The last person to call him by his name was his sister, and the sound of her voice has long been lost to him. 

Slowly, the little bird sits up. Her dyed hair falls wild and loose around her upper body, the still low-hanging sun behind her awakening some of the red fire in it, still. Sandor notices a twig stuck in it, and stops himself from reaching out and removing it. But then, she looks so relaxed and calm that he convinces himself that no, he is not a monster for wanting to touch her, and _she_ leaned on _him_ the night before, and…

Slowly, as to not startle her, he sits up properly and reaches out and plucks the twig from her hair. She makes a small sound, looks up at him, and sits very still. The twig has gotten entangled in her long hair, and his large fingers are not used to handling delicate things. Soon, he has both hands occupied but to no avail, it keeps getting even more entangled and he doesn’t dare pull at her hair. In the end, he decides to break the twig in two so that he can pull the pieces out separately, which proves more successful. It is not until he leans back again that he realizes how odd his behaviour must seem to her, and how forward it is of him to do such a thing without asking. But she is still so very deliberately still, but when he meets her wide-eyed gaze again he finds that she is beet red in the face.

”I…” She swallows. ”Thank you.”

For a moment, he feels as if he’s looking at that young girl again, the one walking her wolf on that ridiculous leash and blushing at every knight in the royal retinue. Their long days in the woods have given some colour to her complexion, he notices even through her furious blush.

”You’ve gotten freckles,” he tells her, though he doesn’t know why.

”I’m. Um.” She frowns, looking very bewildered. ”Sorry.”

He’s not sure if she’s apologizing for the freckles or for her lack of answer, and so he gets up with the excuse of rolling up his bedroll, hiding his smile. The composed lady he worked for in the Vale is far from sight, and in her place sits this dazed, newly awakened creature with tangled hair and a freckled nose. 

”Should get going. Can’t be sure these people will be as welcoming in daylight.”

—

She falls asleep again almost immediately once they’re on their way. Her head is rested beneath his chin and even though the weight of her turns heavy with time, he lets her sleep. She is quiet and distant during their first stop of the day, and he watches her eat and thinks of her yesterday, smiling and carefree. She must have noticed him staring, because she meets his gaze briefly and offers an apologetic smile.

”I’m very tired.”

He nods. He is tired, as well. They resume their journey in silence.

The air has grown chilly and the winds are turning harsher. Perhaps they have already felt the last of the lingering warmth from the long summer. The trees are one by one being set aflame in reds and yellows, making it seem as though the woods are riddled with weirwood trees. He is grateful, now, that she kept his cloak. As much shame as it awakens in him, it’s still decent wool. 

Since the little bird is asleep, Sandor allows Stranger to amble lazily through the woods. He’s given the horse long reins, and for once, allows him to snatch up strands of grass and eat as they move. Sandor can’t help but worry that Stranger does not get all the food he needs here in the woods, and the days are long and heavy on the poor creature. _How will he fare when winter is upon us?_ He’s heard tell of lords that let their people starve to feed their finest horses through the long winters, and of how no-one forgets when summer comes around. But then, horses mean wealth. They mean transport, advantage on the battlefield… After the last ox has been slaughtered for meat, a horse can still pull a plow when spring arrives. With no horses, there’d be no way left for a lord to feed his people. _Given any of them survive_. But then, perhaps he simply doesn’t understand. He was trained to lead soldiers, not to own lands and run a keep. _No, that is_ her _home grounds_. He wonders what the little bird’s septa taught her of starvation. Did she teach her to recognize the gaunt faces and swollen bellies of hungering children? Sandor has no doubt Ned Stark was the sort of lord who believed the wellbeing of the smallfolk to be on his shoulders — in which he would have been right, of course, but there are few these days who take their responsibilities quite so literally. _And they are getting fewer, still_. 

That night, they find a creek to set up camp by. Perhaps they have moved too far west, as the crofts and settlements are more frequent now, and they search for quite a while before they find a spot where they are well out of earshot from any of them. She lights a fire without being asked, and he wonders when that started happening. He holds out a piece of bread for her, but she only narrows her eyes at it.

”Did you steal from those people?”

He shrugs. ”It was on the tables.”

”For the _Mother’s Feast.”_

”And don’t we need some help from the gods?”

She rolls her eyes, but he thinks he can see a small smile tug at her lips when she accepts the bread. 

”You still haven’t told me why you didn’t say anything about Arya.”

He eats his bread, waits for her anger, but it never comes.

”I understand, I think.” Her voice is soft against the gathering darkness. ”There are things I’ve done… Not even bad things, just… I don’t think I’ll ever tell anyone.”

”I don’t know where she went, little bird. She left me for dead.”

She looks him in the eye for a long moment before she nods, and turns her gaze to the fire.

”I just… I’ve… made mistakes. I was young. When they took my father captive, I…” She trails off. ”If Arya is alive, perhaps there is still something I can save.”

There’s nothing he can do but stare at her.

”Don’t tell me you’re putting all that blame on yourself, little bird. Your father made foolish mistakes—”

”Foolish?” She snaps, and there’s the anger. ”I was too young to understand then, but Petyr told me what happened. _You_ know what happened when the Lannister’s sacked King’s Landing during the Rebellion. You know what your brother did. Father… It’s not foolish to want to protect children.”

He is somewhat taken aback by her sudden outburst, but the mentioning of that weasel’s name brings out some of his own rage.

”It _was_ foolish to trust Littlefinger. He told you what happened, did he?” Sandor knows he should stop by now, but he proves unable. ”Did he tell you how he betrayed your father? Did he tell you how he’s the reason Ned Stark got imprisoned in the first place?” 

She seems to sway where she sits, and for a moment he thinks she will collapse on the ground. By instinct, he reaches out to her, but she flinches away.

”He…” Her eyes stare into the vast darkness of the woods. ”I can’t say I’m very surprised.” Her voice is unsteady. ”But I— I let him—” To his horror, she brings her hand up to touch her lips. She hugs herself with her other arm, knuckles whitening. ”Oh gods.”

Sandor clenches his jaw. _This_ is not something he can understand, but it still pains him to see her like this, bloodless and stuck in memories she can never undo. How is it that her pain and grief physically draws him near? He used to willfully misinterpret that instinct, feed it with rage and disguise it in scorn, but he will not frighten her again. Carefully this time, he reaches out and puts his hand on her shoulder. It’s thin and shivering, and he gives a light squeeze. Slowly, still quite somewhere else, she raises her head and looks at him. There is something cool on top of his hand, and he realizes it’s her hand, keeping his gently but firmly in place on her shoulder.

They sit like that for a while, her seemingly too dazed to move, and him unsure of what to do. Eventually, she lowers her gaze and lets go of his hand, and reluctantly, Sandor lets go of her shoulder.

That night, they lay their bedrolls out next to each other, neither of them saying a word.

—

They are both of them more relaxed the next day. He is on foot, feeling the need to exercise his bad leg, leading her on Stranger through the woods. The stream they camped by turns wider and deeper as they move alongside it. They talk, some, and sometimes she hums quietly to herself. He tells her a little of his days as a squire with the Lannisters, because she asks, and of when he came to King’s Landing, because he wants to. He doesn't tell her how awed he was by the sheer vastness of the capital, how he walked the streets during his free time, gaping at the markets and manses. Of course, he didn't find out about the smell until spring came around. She listens attentively, and that is something new to him. It was true what Sandor told her that night when the Blackwater burned, they _were_ all afraid of him. The fearsome Hound, big, strong, but quick as well, heeding no moral but his master’s. And then here’s the little bird, riding sidesaddle on his warhorse, cheerfully asking him what he thought of the food in the Red Keep.

”I learned many things as Alayne,” she says as they cross a meadow of withering winter wheat. ”People talk more freely around bastards, it would seem. When news came of the Boltons in the North, Lord Harlan spoke of my lord father. He said he was a man with cold eyes, that he was as frozen and distant as the Long Night. That was the first time I realized my father was more than the man who told me stories in front of the fire and played with my little brothers. Isn’t that odd?” Her tone is light, but still he doesn’t dare look back at her. ”You must think me very slow.”

He thinks many things of her, but he doesn’t think she’s slow. 

”Well,” she says, ”I— what’s that smell?”

He stops abruptly, and Stranger nudges his shoulder impatiently with his muzzle. Sandor knows this smell. They have travelled too far west, too close to the Kingsroad. 

”Rot,” he says simply. He hears her shift in the saddle.

”Can I walk with you?”

He hesitates. Had it been the smell of burning flesh in the air, he’d have turned around immediately. But this is an old violence, and they can’t yet turn east for the stream, not until they come by a ford. He lifts her from the saddle, noting that she’s lighter now than she was when they set out. _Should have stolen more bread_.

She treads carefully beside him, stiff from riding all day. The stench only gets worse as they progress, and that fact combined with the stream next to them makes Sandor certain beyond a doubt of what awaits them. A wide path appears in front of them. It’s not long until they see the trees thin out ahead, and while the sight in the clearing is not worse than he imagined, it’s all the more horrifying for the gasp the little bird makes beside him.

Every house in the village is a ruin, a burned shell of a home. Scattered on the ground lies the blackened, collapsed carcasses of cattle, dogs, poultry and people. Some bodies are already half-dried from lying exposed, and scavengers have taken their share of the spoils. As they enter the once-village, a huge black vulture takes to the air, carrying something in its claws. Sandor has seen vultures before, in the hills of the Riverlands and the rocky plains and mountains of the Westerlands where he grew up, but never so far east. The sound of its wings beating as it takes off is almost deafening in the quiet around them, and Sandor stands staring after it until a different, unmistakable sound pulls him out of his fascination.

The little bird stands bent over, shoulders shivering, turned away from him. He’s seen people be sick countless times before, on the battlefield, in ale halls, at feasts, but this time, he feels rather helpless. He looks around him. The body lying closest to them is very small, and it’s not an animal. Another body has been recently dragged several feet by some animal, losing bits and pieces along the way. She is still shaking beside him.

”Little bird,” he says and remembers the vulture. ”Sansa.” It slips out as naturally as anything, and he wants to say it again. _Sansa. Sansa_. But she makes a small, strangled sound and he remembers where they are. ”Let’s get you up in the saddle. There’s a ford just here. I’ll lead Stranger, you keep your eyes closed.” Sandor needs them to be away from here as quickly as possible. He knows whose sort of butchery this is.

Her eyes are squeezed shut even as he lifts her into the saddle, and she clings blindly to Stranger’s neck, weaving her fingers through his mane. Sandor leads them between remains towards the ford. There are two human corpses by the stream, one smaller than the other. They lie just by the edge of the water, as if their heads have been pushed in to drown them, only the heads have been washed away by the stream, and small fish are gathered around the stumps of their necks.

”Seven hells.” 

”Seven hells and seven kingdoms,” comes her weak voice from behind him. ”Surely there is a correlation.”

He turns, and finds her not only sitting upright on the horse, but her eyes are open. Tired and wet and red, but open. She tears her gaze from the drowned bodies to look at him.

”This is my fault.” Tears meander down her cheeks, but her voice is steady. ”Isn’t it? Those soldiers, they came for me. They must have passed this way.”

”You didn’t send them,” is all he can say, and he leads them across the ford.

—

Because of their detour, it’s another week before they reach the mouth of the Trident. Sandor has pressed on through the night, and the sky is glowing blue with the approaching dawn as he carefully navigates them across the mudflats, the little bird sleeping in front of him on the horse. The silhouette of the septry looks more familiar than welcoming, but it still brings him some comfort to know that he’s brought them to safety at last. 

He rides through the apple tree grove, and it’s not until they arrive outside the stables that he wakes her.

”Little bird. We’re here.”

She blinks, and looks around. ”Is this your island?”

”Not my island. But it’s the right one.”

The stables are more full than they were when he left, with at least five horses he’s never seen before. In particular, he notices a chestnut courser in a box at the farthest end of the stable. A much too fine horse to be found here. _Much like you, beast._ He pats Stranger affectionately on the neck and finds him an empty box. Before they leave for the septry, Sandor makes certain the horse has water and hay.

It’s almost fully morning when they reach the cloisters. Sandor knows the Brothers have already had their first morning prayer, and should be headed to the refectory for their morning meal by now. Just as he expects, on a stone bench in the atrium, eyes closed and bathed in the first sunlight, he finds the Elder Brother.

At their approaching steps, the Elder Brother opens his eyes to look at them. For a moment, Sandor has a wild thought that they will be sent away. But the man merely stands up, looks from Sandor to the little bird, and back to Sandor.

”Brother Sandor. You’ve returned.” The Elder Brother offers a benign smile, before he turns his attention to the little bird.

Sandor can feel her sway from fatigue beside him, and when the Elder Brother eyes her up and down he wishes he’d given her time to change or… something. Her hair is in the same braid she wore the day before, and there are dark rings beneath her eyes. _He’ll think I’ve mistreated her. He’ll think I stole her away_. But she straightens her back and lifts her chin up as if she wasn’t wearing a servant’s stolen dress, and the Elder Brother smiles at her.

”My lady, welcome to the Quiet Isle. Brother Sandor has told me about you. I am the Elder Brother of this septry.”

”Thank you, Elder Brother.”

”Forgive me, I know you have travelled far, but it will be a while before a cottage is ready for you, Lady Sansa. I will send someone immediately.”

”I am very grateful,” she says carefully, ”but please, call me Alayne while we’re here. No-one can know where I am, not even my husband.”

The Elder Brother’s eyes dart quickly to Sandor, and back to the little bird. ”And by your husband, you mean Ser Harrold Hardyng, am i correct?”

”Yes, Elder Brother.”

The man takes a deep breath that Sandor knows all too well.

”My lady, may I speak to you, somewhere… private?”

”I…” She looks up at Sandor and must have seen the apprehension in his face, because she puts her hand on his arm and turns back to the Elder Brother. ”Please, if there’s anything you need to speak to me about, you can say it here.”

”Out with it, Elder Brother.” Sandor knows that look. The Silent Brothers are all in the refectory, and the cloisters are as private as any place can be.

The Elder Brother approaches them slowly, and puts a broad hand on the little bird’s thin shoulder. Sandor can feel her tense beside him, but she says nothing.

”My lady…” Elder Brother pauses, looks around the cloisters as if searching for his words. In the end, he simply looks at her gravely, and says, ”your husband is dead.”

Sandor almost stumbles at the impact of the words. Quickly, he looks down at her face, searching for… anything. But she simply stares at the man, face blank. Then, she sways again, and Sandor is there to catch her when she faints.

 

 

 

 

 


	18. Sansa VII

A treeful of rooks caw outside the small round cottage, and they would have woken Sansa up had she ever fallen asleep. As it is, she lies on the narrow straw pallet, staring without seeing at the dark ceiling. 

_Oh, Harry._

He never seemed to her like the sort of man to die before his time. Or, if he did, it would be like how King Robert died, foolishly and drunkenly. Not like this, not for…. _Me. He died for me. And all in vain._ She’s not even prayed for him, afraid that the gods would take it as an insult if she, for all the blood on her hands, prayed for her husband’s wretched soul. She thinks of the Hound. Not of Sandor Clegane, but of that rage-drowned man she knew in King’s Landing all those years ago. That man was a killer. He never seemed remorseful.

Perhaps it is easier to kill with a sword than with whatever it is that’s stained her path red with the blood of other’s. Perhaps, if she’d slain with intent, facing her victims, she’d not feel so hollow.

It is lonely in the cottage. It’s a modest little house, with barely any furniture and a fireplace at the centre. All these hours she’s been lying awake, and it’s not linen sheets or a feather bed she’s been missing, but a reassuringly large body asleep near her. But the rules of the island are strict: no man and woman may sleep under the same roof unless they’re married.

Briefly, she wonders if Sandor finds his sleeping quarters similarly empty.

Dawn dares peek through the smokehole in the roof. Resigned, she sits up, and the pallet creaks with her movement. She doesn’t remember much of yesterday. Perhaps she was shown around the island. Perhaps she merely sat in the library, staring out the window at the mudflats in the distance. A Silent Brother led her to the refectory, where a decent enough stew was served. She was sat at the table with the other guests, and was surprised that Sandor joined her there. He had not changed back into robes. She learned that there are many other refugees on the island, brought here by the war and the approaching winter. There was one man, however, that set her on edge. He’s a soldier, that much she could tell, and his piercing green eyes followed her movement through the hall all evening. _A deserter, most likely. I should have nothing to fear_. When his staring made her fear for her safety, she closed her eyes and searched inside for Alayne. Alayne is used to the staring. A beautiful bastard is anyone’s fair game, but Alayne is bastard brave. Alayne doesn't care much for court-like manners and propriety. Alayne bites back. _I don’t look highborn anymore,_ Sansa reminds herself. _No-one will treat me like I was_. 

A sound so sudden it almost makes her jump pulls her from her thoughts. A knock on the door. Three hard raps, short and decisive. It is at once so familiar and so odd that she almost wants to laugh. Slowly, she stands up and pulls her heavy woolen gown over the white linen dress she slept in. The wine stains are almost invisible now.

”Enter.”

He walks in as he used to do, except the doorframe is smaller here than at the Gates, and he has to bend down to fit through. He wears the simple hauberk she gave him, but no sword at his hip. His hair has been combed. She smiles.

”Good morning, Sandor.”

He inclines his head, almost enough so that one might call it a bow.

”You’re not my servant, you know. I don’t pay you. You can do as you please.”

He seems to consider this for a moment, but then only shrugs.

”Doesn’t mean I can’t serve.”

She is grateful, of course. With so many strangers around, she’d rather not feel as though she’s on her own. Sandor waits outside as she makes herself as presentable as she is able, though she knows she must look a fright from her lack of sleep. She is grateful, then, that there are no mirrors in her cottage.

Together, she and Sandor walk to the septry. The cold winds of autumn are more apparent here, exposed in the bay. Soon, winter will be here in earnest. Perhaps this is as good a place as any to wait out the long cold. Perhaps her cottage will become a home, her narrow, creaking straw pallet familiar, and perhaps, at last, she’ll be content. She almost laughs at her own foolishness. If the beautiful Falcon Tower and the grand bed with carved falcons could not make her happy, how could a drafty, sparse cottage by a septry do so? In her bones, Sansa knows there is no place she’ll be happy that isn’t _home_. But her home is burned and taken, and the people who made it hers are long gone from this world. For now, this island will have to suffice.

—

The Elder Brother is reluctant to let her work. She approaches him after the morning meal, and asks to be made useful. 

”My l— Alayne. Surely it would be strange for you, as you have not previously in your life been required to work?”

”Have I not?” Sansa is tired, and sad, and Alayne does not care for court-like manners. ”Do tell, what do you imagine ladies _do_ all day? Sit idle and await the Stranger? Do castles run themselves? Do feasts and festivals simply appear out of thin air? Are house banners gifts from the Seven?” She could go on, but Elder Brother holds his hand up in defeat.

”Very well. Perhaps we can finds something for you to do.”

And they do. Pile after pile of robes with torn hems, cloaks with the fastening fallen off, and work gloves so worn they have holes in them await her in one of the workrooms down by the stables the next morning. Sandor is not with her. After much assurance that Sansa would be safe from both her and the Elder Brother, he agreed to take on tasks of his own. He still came to her cottage in the morning, though. It’s… comforting, in a way. A ritual.

As the days pass, Sansa starts bringing her work to the library. It’s almost always empty, since most of the island’s inhabitants are busy with work preparing for the long winter ahead. From the northern windows she can see the lichyard, and, well, Sandor. He wears a cowl here on the island, to hide his face, and she thinks it a shame. It’s safer for them, yes, but she only gets to see his face in the mornings now, and she misses it. He comes to the library to accompany her to every meal, just like he did at the Gates. They eat together with the other refugees, and Sansa doesn’t ask why he hasn’t resumed his place as a Brother of the Faith.

Harry is still raw and sharp in her heart, even though he has no right to be there. It makes her feel foolish, to grieve such a man. He took her for granted, he _struck_ her, and yet… that’s not where the hurt is. He brought her flowers, sometimes. He ordered Myrish lace for her after she’d admired another lady’s delicate lace dress. Perhaps he even did love her, in the way he knew how. Had he not, that one blow would not have hurt so. Had he not, perhaps she wouldn’t have minded his death. She’s tried not to, even tried convincing herself. _I’m not sorry that he’s dead,_ she’s told herself, over and over again. But she is sorry, and grieving, and foolish.

And she is, in some small way, free.

Before, Harry weighed like a heavy brick of guilt in the back of her mind, a shackle of duty and things she would never live up to. Now, there is the grief, yes, and some guilt yet in a different shape, but. But Sandor. Swift and hard as a hammer on an anvil it hit her, after that great barrier of fidelity fell. 

_I want him_.

Of course, she’s known this a long time. She knew when he found her crying in that orchard, when he came running, sword drawn and panic in his eyes when she’d pricked her finger on her needle. At some level, she’s known ever since that night that the Blackwater burned and he was oh so frightened and angry and wretched and _vulnerable_ to her that she’d not have any man in truth that did not bare himself to her the way Sandor Clegane did. 

_I want him_. 

Wild, shameful dreams of Winterfell in spring with him at her side haunt her, dreams of a carefree self-indulgence and — dare she think it — love.

She knows he wants her. She’d have to be blind not to. And he’s practically even told her so himself, if in the crudest way possible. _And the kiss…_ But before the Mother’s Festival, she wasn’t sure there was any more to it. But then, he’d looked at her as though she was a sole light in the long night, had stroked her hair and whispered her name so desperately into the dark. 

One by one, Sansa has shed her illusions of the world. But even as Harry the Heir fastened his cloak around her shoulders, she did not give up on her dreams of love.

This is perhaps not exactly like she dreamt it, there are no song-like acts of valiance, no sacred tokens of love, no vows spoken in secret. And he is gruff, and scarred, and sometimes ugly. _But there is ugliness in me, too,_ she thinks, _the size and shape of a Southern crown on my head_. 

—

She takes his tunic to mend, says that torn hem will rip open the whole thing, says he’ll have nothing to wear come winter. It’s not true, but that dangling red thread at the sleeve kept following his hand like fresh-spilled blood whenever he moved, and she’d rather it didn’t. She’s already worked through much of the clothes, one extra tunic will do no difference. 

She sits with it one early morning in the library, just fastening the thread and smoothing out the hem, as a thought hits her. It’s a simple tunic, grey with plain red feather stitchings at the hems. Perhaps… It’s a silly thought, and perhaps he’ll be mad at her, but… She throws a quick glance out the window. His large silhouette is nowhere to be seen in the lichyard. Perhaps there are no bodies to bury today. Perhaps he is simply busy elsewhere. A small, cold breeze blows in from the window, rippling through her darkened hair. She quite enjoys the chill on her face as the warmth from the fireplace warms her back. Measuring out new thread, she sets to work on the collar.

She is deep in concentration when a deep, languid voice pulls her violently from her thoughts.

”So he _does_ leave your side, sometimes.”

She knows that accent. King’s Landing. She turns to find the green-eyed soldier leaned against the arch of the fireplace. Part of her isn’t surprised. She’s felt his eyes on her in the refectory at every meal. She shoots a glance around the library. There is no-one else in sight, but for some reason she feels no fear, only a slight annoyance at his presence. She asked the Elder Brother about him on her second day on the island. He didn’t know much, only that he is a deserter from the Lannister forces and arrived just days before her and Sandor. She will have to be careful.

”Who?” she demands in what she likes to think is an indifferent manner.

”Oh, don’t play that game, my lady. You know who. The brute, your housecarl.”

”I’m no lady. And he is not my servant.”

”Oh, is he not?” The man raises an eyebrow. ”Perhaps you should let him know.” A smile that Sansa does not like at all tugs at the corner of his lips, his piercing green eyes never leaving hers. His raven hair is cut short, barely framing his face. He wears an embroidered surcoat of blue wool, and his pointed shoes are of dark leather. Sansa puts her work down on her lap. _I need Alayne._

”We have not been properly introduced, and yet you knowingly startle me and insult my companion.”

”Ah. Well, there’s - ”

”I’ll not extend my attention to you any further unless you introduce yourself, _ser_.” It is terribly rude to interrupt, but she feels no obligation to be courteous towards this man. He visibly stills as he regards her, something shifting in his posture.

”I do apologize,” he says with a slight bow. ”My name is Olyn, a simple hedge knight from the Westerlands. I’ve heard the Elder Brother call you Alayne.”

”That is my name,” Sansa answers, not willing to offer any more information. _No simple hedge knight speaks like that._ ”What is a knight like yourself doing in a septry?”

He smiles again. ”Might I ask, instead, what would bring a lady such as yourself to such a place?”

Sansa silently curses herself for practically inviting him to turn the question on her. ”I told you. I’m not a lady.”

”Not a lady, and here you sit doing needlework while other women are mucking out the stables, and you keep a pet brute that digs graves. I find myself intrigued.” Ser Olyn takes a step towards her. She feels her back stiffen involuntarily. He notices, naturally, and stills. ”Believe me when I say that I mean you no harm.”

”I’ll believe you when you give me reason to.”

Ser Olyn pauses. ”I see. Tell me, what reason did your uncultivated companion give you to trust him? I’d need some insight to your standards of trust.”

And so the end of Sansa’s patience is reached. ”Did you approach me with a purpose, or merely to bother me and insult my friend? Because I’ve had quite enough of it.” She demonstratively returns her attention to her embroidery.

He is not so easily dissuaded, however, but takes another deliberate step towards her. ”One cannot help but wonder what would cause such a fine young lady to be so defensive, and hold such a distrust of strangers.”

”One cannot help but wonder how a knight would come by such base manners.”

”Oh, but you wound me, my lady Alayne.”

”And you irk me, Ser Olyn. I’d prefer to return to my needlework now, if it please you.”

”I do regret that I’ve come across so disagreeably to you.” Another step. If he would reach out his arm now, he could touch her shoulder. ”I find my curiosity sometimes gets the best of me.”

”And yet you keep allowing it to.”

”Everybody has weaknesses.”

”Aye,” comes a rasp of a voice that startles both of them, ”but not all of us give in to them. The little bird asked you to leave.” Sandor stands in the doorway to the west corridor, looking as large and misplaced as ever between the bookshelves that line the walls. To Sansa’s surprise, Ser Olyn backs away from her and gives another bow, without so much as glancing at Sandor.

”I see. Another time, then, my lady Alayne.”

She graces him with a nod and listens for the sound of his footsteps to disappear before she turns to Sandor. ”I _can_ take care of myself, you know. But I am grateful he left, nonetheless.”

Sandor pulls the cowl down below his chin. ”Thought you’d be. He calls me uncultured but can’t even tell when a woman wants him gone.”

”You were _eavesdropping?_ How much of that did you hear?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and he raises his good eyebrow. ”Your friend, am I now?”

Sansa shrugs in annoyance. ”Well, aren’t you?” Before he has any time to answer, she continues: ”And what were you doing up here, anyway?”

Sandor seems to consider for a moment before he answers. ”Saw him head towards the library, so I followed. Didn’t know what he’d want with you. I’ve seen him watch you.”

”Oh.”

”He called you a lady.”

”Yes, I know. I told him not to.”

”Aye, the first couple times.”

Something in her chest goes cold. _”Oh.”_

”Told you you don’t speak common.” With that, he pulls up his cowl, turns and leaves.

She takes a deep breath. So Ser Olyn suspects something. _She_ knows _he’s_ a liar, too. Surely, this can work both ways.

—

It’s evening before she is done with the tunic. Carefully, she smoothes out the fabric in her lap and admires her work. Just beneath the collar, on either side of the hook-and-eye-closure, there are now two little red birds, stylized in the Northern fashion. It’s discreet enough that most people won’t give it a second glance.

By the time Sandor comes to walk her back to her cottage, the tunic is neatly folded into her lap, hiding the embroidery.

”It’s done,” she says, and hands it to him. He looks at it for a moment, before he accepts it with a small nod and tucks it under his arm without unfolding it. She is relieved.

They walk back to her cottage in silence. Most other women on the island perform more heavy labour than Sansa, and are already abed. The buildings are far enough apart for privacy, anyway. It is almost completely dark save for the light that escape the smokeholes of the women’s cottages. As they approach the door of Sansa’s cottage, she collects her bravery. _I want him_. 

”You’ve… done a great deal for me.” It’s not what she meant to say. ”More than I can ever repay.”

”No need,” is all he says, eyes fixed ahead.

”Why?” she says, just as they reach her door, and turns to face him.

He searches her face for a long moment before he answers. ”You know why, little bird.”

_Do I?_ She’s still not certain. ”All the same,” she says, keeping her voice low, ”I’d rather have you tell me.”

With a movement so swift it causes her to flinch, he rips down his cowl and bares his face. Of course he misreads her reaction.

”Don’t be cruel.”

”Cruel?” Slowly, heart hammering in her chest, she reaches up and gently puts her hand over his burned cheek. ”No. We’ve danced around this long enough.” Reaching up with her other hand, she pulls his head down towards her as she stands her on tip-toes to reach. Blissfully unthinking, she pulls his mouth to hers.

He is warm, but the tip of his nose is cold against her cheek. In her slow, deliberate gentleness she can feel the difference between the burnt and unburnt side of his mouth, the unburnt one being surprisingly soft and pliant, the other coarse and hard against her lips, not unpleasantly. For several moments, there is nothing in her mind save that contact between them, but then his hand is around the back of her head, pressing her against him almost violently, his other hand gripping her shoulder. The strength of his grip sends sparks through her entire body, and encouraged, she snakes her arms around his neck and allows a small, desperate sound escape her lips.

This is a mistake.

As suddenly as he embraced her, he has pushed her away. Unbalanced, she falls back against the door. He has backed away several steps, staring down at her with eyes glimmering in the dark.

”The _fuck.”_

His voice is still kept low, but it cuts through her body nonetheless. He continues:

”Don’t— Is this— _Why?”_

”You know why.” _You must._ It’s shameful how weak she sounds.

”No. No. Don’t fucking— Are you— Is this _gratitude?”_

”You know it’s not. You know I’ve— Oh, Sandor, please, just believe me.”

”Believe what?” She wishes she could see his face more clearly.

Sansa steadies herself and walks up to him, slowly.

”This.” Once more, she cups his face with her hands. ”Trust this.”

This time, it’s him that pulls her to him. One large hand is at her neck, the other roams her back, and his lips. Hungry and as full of need as she is. Hot. She tastes his lower lip and gives a small bite for good measure. The sound in his throat at that is enough to weaken her legs.

A harsh wind pulls in from the North, and she is suddenly reminded that they are outside. They are being careless, and carefree, just as she wishes she could be. But this is not home. He seems to realize, as well, and slowly, reluctantly, he loosens his grip on her and tears his lips from hers. 

”The _fuck.”_

But his voice is softer this time, more wondrous than upset.

”I can’t…” She searches her mind for the right words. ”I can’t wait out the winter without… This, this dancing around each other is ridiculous, don’t you see?”

She can hear his uneven breathing. In the faint glimmer of light, she can just make out his features; mouth slightly open, eyes wide, staring uncomprehending at her. A large hand strokes her cheek, and perhaps she can feel a tremble in it.

What can she do, faced with such reverence, but melt?

With a sigh, she closes the small space between them and leans her cheek against his chest. It’s warm even through his cloak, and beneath, the faint sound of heartbeats reach her ear. The septry bell tolls for midnight, and she knows he must leave. Few things happen on this island without the Elder Brother knowing about it, and she doesn’t think their host would appreciate it if Sandor spent the night in her cottage, and if this goes on, she might well ask him to.

”You should…”

”Aye.” The weakness in his voice matches her own.

”Yes. Tomorrow.” With great effort, she manages to pull herself from his embrace, almost too swiftly, because she only has so much self-control, and she doesn’t dare risking running out.

For a moment, he only stands in front of her, a huge shadow in the dark.

”’Night, little bird.”

She smiles into the darkness. ”Good night, Sandor.”

—

She is barely inside her door before she sinks down onto the dirt floor of her dark cottage. They are being far too reckless. _And far too cautious_. Her breathing has not yet evened out. _Perhaps I am being cruel. I’d never have done such a thing when Harry was alive_. Wouldn’t she? Her feelings haven’t changed, just how clearly she allows herself to perceive them. Is it not just her patience that has run out?

She does not know how long these thoughts whirl through her mind. Suddenly, she is interrupted in such a manner that could well stop her heart. A knock. Three short raps.

_Sandor?_ No, surely not. But there is no-one else. Slowly, she stands up and smoothes down her skirts. Taking a deep breath, she reaches for the door.

Things happen very quickly. As soon as she’s turned the key, the door is ripped open from the outside, and then there’s something cold against her throat.

”Lady Sansa.” _Ser Olyn_. His sword catches the faint light as it presses against her throat. Panic builds up in her chest and threatens to burst her from the inside. ”Ah, no, I’d rather you didn’t scream. Things might get messy. Now, let’s get your things, shall we? This is no place for a highborn lady.”

 

 

 

 


	19. Maiden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I aten't dead. If anyone's still here, hi, thank you for reading.

 

 

 

The song begins with a maiden in a tower.

_No, that’s not right._

The song begins when a drunken warrior is shown pity.

_Closer, but not quite._

It begins, as so many things do, with fire.

A prince born among raging flames saves an ember from them, and lets it lead him to his grave.

To a girl born in a castle of snow, this glowing ember is the beginning, and the end.

A young man watches his father burn to death and dies trying to save him, leaving his bride-to-be to wed his younger brother.

A boy is pushed into the fireplace by his brother, and burns, and burns, and burns.

The tiniest spark sets off a long chain of events, and one day, a young girl with the fires of autumn in her hair follows her father when he travels south. The world will burn and freeze again before she sees her home once more, and now, even that seems lost.

There are people looking for her.

Some have found her, during the years, and others have perished looking. But only one has failed so utterly and so honorably:

Somewhere in the Riverlands, the Maid of Tarth sheaths her sword. The boy has readied the horses, and it is once again time to go. Sometimes when she looks at him, she can still see him dangling, choking, dying. In her mind, she is once more surrendering and once again betraying Jaime. 

It didn't last of course, the betrayal. It never came naturally to her. He knew, as soon as they were on their way to the trap set for him, and the shame when he confronted her, the _shame_ … 

They had until nightfall, or the Lady would kill the boy. That was the deal. A life for a life. A loyalty sacrificed for another earned. Jaime crept through the bushes and though Brienne has seen him at his very worst and his very finest, she never saw him so shocked as when he spotted the Lady in the camp ahead. 

They got the boy out. The Brotherhood always expected Brienne to run away, and the guards were sloppy. _’For my brother’_ , Jaime had said, but the only one there was Brienne. They stole the horses back and did the only thing possible; they ran away.

Jaime left shortly after that. She should have known he would. He has responsibilities, and she has her vow.

She should have given up by now. Somewhere inside her, she knows this is foolhardy. The girls are gone, dead, dust by now, and no matter how long she scours these lands for any sign of them, they’re still going to be gone. Even the whispers of them being found that go around every few months fail to instill any hope in her.

Podrick hums quietly behind her as they ride on through the woods. His voice is so much deeper now than it was when they set out, and they’ve had to get him new clothes. He shouldn’t be out here with her, but then, there’s nowhere else for him to be. And so they ride on.

Perhaps there is something awaiting them ahead. Perhaps it’s what they’ve been searching for. As morning frost spreads out across the woods, the raging fire that has grown from sparks and embers is finally starting to fade. They have their part in this song, and a new verse is beginning.

 

 


	20. Sandor VII

_Tomorrow_.

Sandor does not know what that means, but still, his heart is hammering in his chest as he walks, stumbles in his haste back to his narrow chamber in the septry. The tunic tucked under his arm burns through his clothes onto his very skin with the memory of her care, and his lips and hands are cold from the loss of her touch. 

_Trust this_.

There is still a lingering stutter in his heartbeat, still a whisper of her breath against his cheek. _She kissed me_. He shakes his head. _She’s lost her husband_.

It’s not that he thinks she mourns him. He _knows_ she does. There’s no way she wouldn’t. She’d mourn every single person, good and bad, given the chance. _Hells, she’ll probably mourn me too, strange woman_. He does not know if that thought brings him more comfort than guilt.

Still, there is something insistent in his mind, reminding him that yes, she’s lost her husband, she’s mourning, but she’s also been adamant on forgiving him over the years. _She came with me_. _She does not think I’m a monster_. Against all odds, she insists on trusting him.

He sits down on his rickety bed and peers out the narrow window, into the enveloping darkness. There are no nightbirds now, this close to winter. The night is silent. In Sandor’s hands is the tunic, clutched tightly, and he looks down at it in his lap. Thinks: _What luxury to care whether she meant any of it_. Years as a dog, begging for scraps, taking what he dared, and here he is, now, weighing the meaning of her words in his mind as though it _matters_. As though he wouldn’t take what was offered, whether it came with or without sincerity. _She seemed sincere enough, though_. The tip of his index finger finds his lower lip. _Yes. Sincere_. Little bird-heart a-flutter against his chest, arms thrown around his neck. Sandor allows himself one final moment to immerse himself in the lingering sensations of their meeting.

He does not know how long it is before he collects himself and starts preparing for bed.

Sandor is bare-chested, shivering from the cold water in his washbowl when there is an insistent knock on the door. Perhaps it is with an eagerness that he throws open the door, without even putting a tunic on. A gust of cold air from the corridor hits him, and he finds himself face to face with the unassuming Brother Syl. 

Syl is taken aback, letting his eyes flicker briefly over Sandor’s bare chest before he signs: _Elder Brother. Cloisters_. With that, he has disappeared again.

_Shit_. Sandor has never been called anywhere after midnight and have the reason be something good. Blindly, he reaches for the grey tunic Sansa mended and pulls it over his head. As he ties his belt over it, something red catches his eye. Perched just beneath the collar, one little bird on each side. _Put her mark on me, has she?,_ he thinks with a small smile. First the direwolf, and now this. There is no question as to where he belongs, at least. He throws his cloak around his shoulders and hurries to the cloisters.

—

Elder Brother stands in the cloisters, with Brother Norbert standing at his side. Sandor immediately recognizes the grave expression in the older man’s face, and the soldier in him starts listing possible reasons why. _A raven from King’s Landing. A raven from the Vale. Lannister banners over Saltpans. An attack?_ But no warning bells have tolled. 

”Brother Sandor.” Something in Elder Brother’s tone stops Sandor from correcting him. ”Ser Olyn has left the island.”

”Good riddance,” Sandor interjects, though he knows there must be more to it.

”We believe he took your lady with him.”

—

”Brother Norbert was just leaving the stables as he heard a ruckus. A woman. Ser Olyn’s rooms are empty, and the ferry has left.”

Without knowing it, Sandor started hurrying towards the women’s huts, and Elder Brother is keeping pace. Brother Norbert has gone to collect Sandor’s belongings and saddle Stranger.

”You’ll need to wait for the ferry to return. The tide is high, and the Path of Faith is too risky.”

Sandor barely listens. He thinks of her keeping her husband at an arm’s length, of her eyes turning cold at every genuine show of affection from Littlefinger. Perhaps… _No. She kissed you_. But there is another voice in his mind, cruel and familiar: _She kissed you farewell, dog, and gave you a parting gift. It’s more than you could have hoped for_. 

He all but breaks open the door to the hut, and though he expects it, is still dismayed to find it empty. The sparse room has been emptied of her belongings, save for a familiar red velvet pouch, placed on the straw pallet. Numbly, Sandor grabs it, and ties it to his belt.

”She is gone,” he says, unnecessarily. 

”I suppose you should go after her, then.”

Sandor does not dignify that with an answer. What else is there for him to do?

—

There is a splatter of blood on the stable door. It’s small, just a few drops, and if one of the shepherd dogs hadn’t been sniffing it intently, he might not have noticed. On the ground, below, is her dagger. The blade is clean. He takes it wordlessly. _Still held it wrong, I’ll bet_. He’s being unfair. The man was a knight.

—

It’s hours before the ferry returns. Dawn is staining the sky with light, reflecting in the morning frost. Sandor is staring into the mist, watching the ferry approach. Elder Brother has not left his side. Stranger is half-sleeping, occasionally leaning against Sandor’s shoulder. He should not have been relieved to see the blood, to find the dagger. He knows that. But to have… _something,_ to tell him she didn’t go willingly… _Shouldn’t have doubted her_. She’s not cruel. Doesn’t have it in her. Never did. He should have known.

Sandor thinks he thanks Elder Brother before he gets on the ferry. He hopes he does. It’s all a bit blurry. Traveling on no sleep is a good way to get killed or fall of your horse, but he doesn’t have a choice. He’s already lost too much time waiting for the ferry.

The ferry-man is tired, too, and as soon as the mist swallows them out on the water, Sandor draws a dagger on him.

The man does not seem surprised.

”Which way did they travel? They must have spoken. Speak!”

The ferry-man takes a long, shaking breath. ”I— I don’t know, ser. The knight mentioned the Crossroads Inn.”

Sandor is no scout. It’s all he has to go on.

—

At high speed, it’s two and a half days to the crossroads. The road shows signs of recent travel, but then, it doesn’t have to mean anything. If Olyn truly took Sansa towards the Kingsroad, that means he works for the Crown. If he’s wrong, and they went towards the Vale, Littlefinger will have her. The Crown’s soldiers can hardly still be at the Bloody Gate. If he’s right, and they reach King’s Landing before Sandor can intervene, Cersei will have her head. He presses on.

The days are short and the winds are cold. Though he was reluctant to accept it at first, he is grateful to have his old cloak back. It seems fitting, somehow, that it’s grey now. 

It’s evening when he finally approaches the crossroads. Evening falls quickly as he hurries down the road, wanting to be under a roof before nightfall. Stranger is breathing heavily, and Sandor’s stomach is empty. _This won’t hold_. He’s a soldier. He knows that sooner rather than later, both him and Stranger will collapse under this exertion. Perhaps one night at the inn…

The trees give way ahead, and lights from the inn reach him, the building stretching out even over the water. With the last rays of sun dancing over the ancient façade, Sandor sees the last banner he ever expected to see, hung from the upper floor window above the entrance: White as ice, with a grey direwolf emblazoned across it.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience. And for your wonderful comments. I know I've been bad at replying lately, but I read them all, and I am grateful to have such lovely readers.


	21. Sansa VIII

The man behind her on the horse is not who she’d like him to be. He has an arm lightly wrapped around her waist, and he chats idly about the weather, about the rich winter velvet from Lorath seen in King’s Landing lately. He is a knight, and a very handsome one at that, the kind from the songs; well-spoken and well-read. She would strike his handsome face if she thought it would make any difference.

Her hands are tied in front of her, and one of them still stings, the wound wrapped inexpertly in Ser Olyn’s handkerchief. _And he expected me to thank him for it_. Sansa should have known better than to draw her knife on him. It was almost instinctive, as soon as he had his back to her, fumbling with the stable door latch. She never had a chance. Before she’d made so much as a scratch on him, he’d sliced her across the back of her hand, making her drop the knife, and then once more, for crying out. _A true knight, indeed_. 

She didn’t know whether to be relieved or not when he turned east from Saltpans. When she left the Vale, there was an army at the Bloody Gate, and now, her husband is dead. There is only one man in the Vale who would send for her, and since her husband’s death, she cannot be certain where she stands with him. Sending a man like Ser Olyn after her was no doubt calculated, though badly so. _Petyr thought I would be swayed by a pretty face and a golden tongue. He should have learned after Harry_. 

Ser Olyn is certainly a quick learner, though. He quickly gave up on his attempts to sway her after he followed her and Sandor and saw… Well. _Far too reckless,_ she chastises herself. _’Wouldn’t Lord Baelish be interested to learn of your dalliances, my lady?’_ Ser Olyn said, that first night, but it doesn’t worry her as much as it might have done before. _Do you truly believe yourself to be valuable to him, knight? I know him better than most_. No, Sansa is not overly worried about Sandor where Petyr is concerned. As for herself… Even if the Crown’s soldiers are gone from the Vale, her strongest ally is dead, and her fate would depend on Petyr’s benevolence. The mere thought makes her sick. _I’m sure Petyr cannot wait to have the recently widowed heiress to the North at his mercy_. Her only hope to escape a future as Lady Baelish is her Sweetrobin, and though she and him had begun to make cautious amends to their relationship before she left, he is not a reliable boy. And Sandor…

_Oh, Sandor_.

She left him what valuables she had. He’ll need it, whether he’ll come after her or not. _Silly girl. You know he will_. As they make camp for the night, Sansa briefly considers crippling the horse while Ser Olyn sleeps. But her contemplations on how to go about it are cut short when she is tied against a tree trunk for the night.

”Can’t have you trying anything else.” Sansa only glares back. ”Oh, I don’t like it either, my lady, but you did pull a knife on me.”

She imagines pity in the horse’s eyes as it looks at her from its long tether, apparently trusted with more freedom than her. It’s just as well. She couldn’t have hurt the animal. Unprovoked violence is a threshold desperations has not yet pushed her over, and though she may be naïve for it, she’d prefer to keep it that way.

Ser Olyn lies down comfortably by the fire. She tried asking for his full name on the ferry, but he only waved her question away, calling it inconsequential. _Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Perhaps he is just another obstacle_. There have been so many over the years that it hardly seems necessary to differentiate between them. Petyr has many contacts in King’s Landing, knights and smallfolk alike. In the light of the fading fire, she can see her captor slowly drifting off. Sansa is still wide awake. This won’t do.

”Ser Olyn.”

His eyes flicker open.

”I am very uncomfortable.”

He does not move, and slowly, his eyes close again.

”Ser Olyn!”

Still nothing.

”How do you expect to be received at the Gates?”

_This_ gets his attention. 

”My lady.” That piercing gaze is on her. ”Lord Baelish has always been a good ally, and I have not given him cause to distrust me. Now, will you let me sleep, or should I inform him of your shameless affair with the Hound on our arrival?”

_Ah_. ”An ally, you say? And yet, _Petyr_ didn’t inform you of his plans for me?” Clearly not, if his expression is anything to go by. ”You must have figured out by now, that Petyr intends to wed me? Now, do you think he would appreciate you spreading rumors about his future lady wife?”

”I’m sure—”

”It is far cheaper to kill you than to pay you off, _Ser_ Olyn.” Sansa cuts him off. His mouth snaps shut. ”Now. What is your full name?”

There is a considerable pause before he answers.

”I am Ser Olyn of House Lantell, third son of Lord Martyn Lantell.”

”My apologies, Ser Olyn. You were right. You _are_ of no consequence.”

He is visibly taken aback, but soon collects himself. 

”And yet,” he says, ”you’re the one tied to a tree, my lady.”

”Oh, I am, aren’t I? What do you think Petyr will have to say about that?”

A long pause. There is a shuffling sound, and soon, there is a bundled tunic behind her head and a cloak draped over her. The ropes remain. Ser Olyn crouches in front of her.

”You know I cannot risk letting you loose, my lady. However,” and he leans in, just a little, but close enough, ”I do get your point. But you must consider my position: If I keep your dalliance a secret, what, ah, _insurance_ , do I have that you won’t tell Lord Baelish any unflattering lies about me?”

_I wouldn’t need to lie, for one_. ”I suppose you’ll need to have faith in me, Ser Olyn.”

”I think we’re a little ways beyond faith, my lady.”

He has a dagger in his hand. It’s odd that she only realizes this now. ”I have nothing to give you.”

”Oh, you don’t? Then tell me, my lady, why this is a risk worth taking for me. Wouldn’t it be easier for me to simply kill you now, if turning Lord Baelish against me is such a simple task for you?”

_Oh_. She must be tired, not to have foreseen such a simple solution. At once, the last two days come crashing down on her. Sandor. _Perhaps he thinks I left. Perhaps he is not coming at all_. Just as something within her control, something she _wants,_ moved within her reach, the fates conspired to take it all away again. How pathetic she must look to this knight, immobilized, half-lying, tucked in his wool cloak. Little helpless lady with a big mouth. Little lady with tangled hair tied to a tree. As misery washes over her, she can see something shift in his face, that hard gaze giving way for just a second, and to her shame, that proves to be enough. A sob escapes first. Then the tears.

_Little lady crying in the woods_. 

Ser Olyn leans away from her immediately, turns his green eyes to the fire, almost sheepishly. He looks… uncomfortable. Slowly, carefully, he sheaths his dagger and turns away from her. _He had no trouble making me bleed when I attacked him, no trouble arguing with me when I was discourteous, but_ this, _of all things…_ An old thought reaches her as she watches him turn: _perhaps desperation is more effective than calculation, indeed_. 

”Please,” she manages to whisper. ”He’ll have Sandor killed.”

For a long while, Ser Olyn does nothing at all. Then, he gets back to his bedroll by the fire, lacking his cloak now, and lies down. Places the dagger within reach, demonstratively.

”You think about my insurance, my lady. We’ll reach the Bloody Gate tomorrow. Best get some sleep before then.”

—

The woods give way to rocky hills the next day, and it suddenly strikes Sansa as odd that she’s never approached her former home from the west before. But she’s heard the stories of the men who dwell here. _’Wildlings’_ , Randa called them, but Sansa cannot imagine there being wildlings this far South. 

”Have you traveled here before, Ser Olyn?”

”No, my lady.”

There’s been no idle chatter today. Ser Olyn has been quiet and distant, perhaps a little rougher than yesterday when lifting her into the saddle. _Insurance_. It’s true what she said, she has nothing but her word to offer. Though Sansa tries to contain herself, she cannot help but crane her neck to look behind them as they navigate the narrow path on the way to the Vale road.

”He’s not coming, my lady. I’m sure he’s comfortable in a chamber at the Crossroads Inn by now.”

Sansa has no choice but to not believe him. With every passing hour she is nearing a miserable fate, and she must believe there is an escape from it.

Without any warning, Ser Olyn has brought the horse to a halt. 

”We shouldn’t stop here. The mountain clans—”

”My lady.” He cuts her off, his voice rumbling in his chest against her back. ”I believe you to be a kind woman.”

”Ser?”

”I don’t wish to kill you,” he says. ”And I don’t think it’s in your nature to cause me harm.”

Sansa’s gaze flickers down to her injured hand. She wishes she could see his face. ”What makes you think that?”

The sound of his dagger being unsheathed answers her question before he does. Cold steel is pressed against her throat, and his mouth is just by her ear when he speaks again. ”Because, Lady Sansa,” he says, deadly calm, ”I don’t think you want me to cut your throat right here and now. You will give me your word—”

It’s him that’s cut off this time, but not by Sansa. A strange, soft _thump_ is heard, and the horse collapses beneath them, an arrow protruding from its eye. Sansa and Ser Olyn are flung forward, and it’s by luck alone that his dagger merely scratches her throat before he reaches out to brace himself. Sansa has no such luxury. Her hands are still tied.

The ground comes at her quickly, and then, nothing.

—

The pain comes to her first. Blinding white, it fills her senses, originating from her forehead and spreading down her spine.

Gradually, her vision returns, and she sees a figure, casting its shadow over her. Bit by bit, contours become clearer, and she can discerns two things: _Tall. Armored_.

”S… Sandor?”

The figure shifts, says something, but the voice is wrong, and another, smaller figure appears above her. It’s too much to focus on, and the world goes dark.

—

Something cold hits her between the eyes, spreading like a mask over her face and soaking into her hair. As it covers her nose and mouth, she opens her eyes, tries to lift her head, and gasps for air.

”Podrick!” The voice is a woman’s. ”What did you _do?”_

”You said to wake her up!”

_Podrick?_ The world is clearer now, as she blinks the water from her eyes, and before her is a boy — man? — that is oddly familiar. There is shouting, and she can’t make out from where. _Doesn’t matter_. Slowly, she allows herself to shut her eyes and lower her head back onto something soft, but then, someone grabs her shoulders. 

”My lady!” It’s the woman again. She’s gently lifting Sansa into a sitting position. Sansa can see now that the woman is impossibly tall, blonde, armored. Slowly, she lets her gaze drift back to the boy-man, to the strange _mass_ behind him that she realizes is Ser Olyn’s dead horse. Some paces away from it is what’s left of the knight himself, tossed haphazardly onto the ground with two arrows protruding from his chest. _Oh_. She presses her eyes shut, but the pain won’t allow even that. And so she continues to take in the scene: Ser Olyn’s wool cloak, dragged through the dirt, and the body that still clutches it. She can’t see the face, but the simple clothes and primitive morningstar beside the body tells her that he was from one of the mountain clans. A third body, in similar clothes, lies close to the second one, blood splattered across his gaunt face. Ser Olyn’s sword, still in its scabbard, lies next to the body. _Sword_. Sansa’s eyes catch the gleaming of gold from the woman’s waist, and she realizes it’s the pommel of a sword, expertly formed into a lion’s head. _Lion. Podrick_.

Panic gives her the force she needs to pull herself backwards with her arms, desperately crawling away from her new captors.

”My lady! You’ll hurt yourself!”

”No,” Sansa manages. ”No.”

She can see Ser Olyn’s dagger on the ground, just out of reach. It must have been flung away in the fall from the horse. Perhaps… Perhaps a swift death is a better fate. With immense effort, half-blinded by pain, she reaches and closes her fingers around the hilt. _I’m sorry, Sandor._ Fleetingly, she wonders if she’ll see her parents again.

”Please, my lady.” The woman pries the dagger from Sansa’s hand, as easy as anything. ”We mean you no harm.”

”Lady Sansa.” The squire of her former husband holds his hands up in front of him, as if trying to placate a wild animal. ”Please. You’ve hit your head.”

Helplessly, Sansa allows herself to be carried back to the makeshift stretcher they’ve made her.

”We’ll have to move you somewhere safer. Our horses are tethered two hours from here. Please, try to stay awake.”

Sansa looks at the woman as she speaks. Is that genuine concern in her features? _Does it matter?_ She tries to say something, but all that comes out is:

”L… Lannisters…”

”They were clansmen from the mountains, my lady,” says the woman, matter-of-factly. ”The Lannisters at the Bloody Gate were defeated by— Please, stay awake. I have news of your sister.”

 

 

 

 

 


	22. Sandor VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is un-edited, but I didn't want it to be late. Please let me know if you find any mistakes. I'll look it over tomorrow.

He is met by two soldiers, young, but their armor is old. One is tall, with grave grey eyes and dark hair. _Northern,_ Sansa would call him. _Just like she called me Northern once_. Sandor dismounts, and nods up at the Stark banner adorning the old inn.

”What’s this? A jape of some sort?”

”Is the direwolf a jape to you?” says the shorter one. ”We serve House Stark.”

For a second, Sandor does not know what to say. ”There isn’t a House Stark anymore.” _There’s just a Lady Stark, and I lost her_. 

”I’d like to hear you say that to her face.”

_Her?_ No. This is some impostor, surely. ”Who?”

”The Lady, of course.”

”Take me to her.” He is too exhausted to come up with a course of action. Whatever this is, he can’t just leave it. _Perhaps I’m in a ditch somewhere and this is all a fever dream. Should have rested more_. If he’ll die with a vision of her, then so be it. He thinks it strange, though, that his sister is not here. He was always so certain she would be the one to greet him at the end of his life. _A boy’s dream. Death is no dream_. Not quite feeling his legs, he lifts his saddlebags off of Stranger and hands the reins to a stable boy, and lets himself be escorted by the soldiers. In a daze, he hands the tall one his sword. _Wouldn't do me much good in this state, anyway_.

He can see, now, that there is someone standing at the front door of the inn, armed with a crossbow. She is thin, still closer to girl than woman, and she is eyeing him intently as he lets himself be led towards the entrance. 

”He wants to see the Lady,” comes the Northern one’s voice from behind Sandor. ”She in the study?”

The girl nods. ”It’s late, but I think she’s still there. I’ll come with you.” She walks in front of them through the ale hall, which is mostly empty save for a couple of tables where groups of people in shaggy clothing are gathered over quiet conversations. It’s overall far too quiet in here. _And they’re all so young_.

They reach a dark, narrow corridor beyond the ale hall, and at the very end of it is a closed door with light spilling out from inside. Also from inside comes raised voices, one male, one female. It is not Sansa. It couldn’t have been, anyway. His heart sinks in his chest. The girl gestures for Sandor and the soldiers to wait while she walks ahead and carefully peeks inside. A hushed conversation is held, and Sandor cannot for the life of him make out what’s being said. He knows he is swaying slightly where he stands, his saddlebags heavy over his shoulder, knows that this fatigue will take its toll on him soon enough.

The girl looks back at them. ”Donnal, Gage, bring him in.”

The first thing he sees in the study is the young man, work-built, with short, black hair, standing with a hammer in his hand, eyes on Sandor as he enters. Behind him is a desk, and behind that desk…

_No_.

She’s about the same age as the girl with the crossbow, perhaps a little bit older. Her hair is longer, now, her cheekbones more pronounced. For a long moment, Sandor Clegane and Arya Stark stare silently at each other, wide-eyed, both of them faces with a ghost from a past life.

”Willow.” she says at last, lips barely moving, and it reminds him of that day in the Vale orchard many weeks ago when Sansa stared at him and held a knife wrong and— ”Bring me my sword.”

The crossbow girl — Willow — nods wordlessly and leaves the room. He hears the door shut behind him, and the two soldiers are moving closer to him.

”Seven hells. The little sister. Going to finish the job?” he manages to say, and he sounds weak, and tired, and already defeated.

Slowly, she rises. She is tall. ”Doesn’t look like it would be very hard work.”

”No,” he admits, and a chuckle slips out, ”It probably wouldn’t be.” She eyes him warily, eyes darting to his empty sword belt and back to his ruined face. ”There’s someone that wouldn’t thank you for it, though.”

”Not looking for thanks. And I already have more enemies than I can count. What’s one more?”

He remembers Sansa clutching his hand, desperately seeking answers from him. _’If Arya is alive, perhaps there is still something I can save’_. He looks into the hard grey eyes of the girl in front of him, and is suddenly grateful that she isn’t here to see this. He knows that rage, remembers it in the child Arya was when he stole her away, knows it from himself, long ago and sometimes even now. _She will kill me, and she won’t regret it_. Sandor doesn’t know what to say to that rage that won’t inflame it further, so he says the only thing he can. Just like all those years ago, but he’s looking for a different kind of mercy now.

”Your sister. Sansa.”

The girl’s face goes white, and she freezes for just a second, before she’s rounded the table, pushed the man aside, and pressed a knife to Sandor’s throat. The man raises his hammer, muscles tensing in his jaw.

”How _dare_ you?” She hisses. ”How _dare_ you say her name? After— You— _Why didn’t you die?”_

He can hear footsteps in the corridor. 

”Believe it or not, she-wolf,” he says, letting his saddle bags slide off his shoulder, ”it’s a good thing I didn’t.”

She’s about to say something but is interrupted by the door opening. Sandor doesn’t dare try to look with a knife to his throat, but soon enough Willow comes into view carrying that toothpick of a sword he remembers the she-wolf waving around even back then.

Slowly, she lowers the knife and goes to get her sword. ”Bring him outside.”

”Wait,” he says with as much urgency he can muster. ”I serve your sister.”

She hesitates, gives him a long, almost pitiful look. ”Seven hells. You’re almost not worth killing.”

”Look.” Sandor opens his cloak to reveal the embroidered collar with he two birds. ”Seem familiar?”

She approaches him again, anger once more flashing in her eyes. ”You want me to believe—” She stops abruptly. Stares at the birds. Even Sandor can tell they are made in the Northern style.

”Look in the bag. The right one. Black wool.”

Her eyes dart to the shorter soldier, gives a nod. The young man bends down, starts tossing out Sandor’s few belongings on the floor until he reaches the bottom of the bag, and pulls out a bundle of black wool. Uncertainly, he holds it out to the she-wolf. She turns to Sandor. ”Unfold it.”

Sandor takes it from the soldier’s hands, and shakes it out so that the back with the intricately embroidered direwolf faces her. ”There,” he says, ”still going to kill me?”

She doesn’t answer. she reaches out a long, slim hand and just nearly touches the embroidery. ”Lady,” she say, quietly, and half-smiles. Then, the smile is gone and she has snatched the tunic from his hands. ”Where is she? What have you done to her?”

”You’ll let me sit down and have something to drink if you want the story completed. And a room for the night.”

Begrudgingly, she sends Willow away with a nod, and the girl returns moments later with a fauldstool and a tankard of weak ale.

”We’ll see about the room.” She sits back down at the desk, and Sandor sits across from her. Willow and the soldiers are gone, and only the black-haired man remains. ”Now, explain yourself quickly, or you won’t be needing a room at all.”

—

”We knew she wasn’t still in the Vale,” the girl sighs. The man behind her is almost falling asleep. ”We returned from the Bloody Gate a week ago. The Lannister forces were all but defeated already, but the Valemen refused to let us in. No doubt Littlefinger’s orders. I searched north along the Kingsroad, and sent scouts to the east and west. She’s not passed this way, so our hope lies with my scouts to the west. One of them squired for the Imp,” she says that last word with disgust, ”so even if she is disguised as you say, he should be able to recognize her.”

Sandor hasn’t told her everything, of course. Only what is necessary. The rest, well… That’s up to Sansa, if— _when_ he finds her.

”They left six days ago. They’ll send a raven if they find her.”

Sandor wants to stand up, wants to get back on Stranger and head west. But it’s hard for him to focus on anything with his eyes, and his body is so very heavy. 

Tomorrow.

_I’m no use to her dead_.

He’ll leave on the morrow. Perhaps if there’s a ship in Saltpans, he can return to the Vale from the east. He’ll never catch up with them now, anyway. 

”We’ll wait for the raven tomorrow,” she says. ”If none arrives, I’m going west myself.” 

This makes the man behind her jerk out of his half-asleep state. ”Ar— M’lady, you can’t—”

”I can and I will, Gendry. We’re not marching north without her.”

_March? North?_ Sandor knows he is still missing many pieces of this puzzle, but for now, he needs sleep.

He does get a room, a narrow one with a rickety bed on the bottom floor, right next to the ale hall. This is no doubt meant as a slight, but the ale hall is empty and quiet, and Sandor is exhausted enough to fall asleep as soon as his head touches the lumpy straw mattress.

—

The next morning comes with a cacophony of noise. There is running outside his window, banging and shouting from the kitchens, and loud talking can be heard from the hall. Though his bones are still heavy and his head aches, he manages to get dressed and go to the hall for a morning meal.

There is staring, of course, but he is used to that. It’s not as bad in war as it was in peace, though. People are used to seeing damage now, even the children.

And they are children. Most of them, anyway. Young, very young, some helping in the kitchen and others playing at being soldiers, dressed in ill-fitting armor, sitting at tables of their own where the younger ones are not welcome.

He’s finished his meal and is downing the last of his ale when the girl comes out to join him.

”Hound,” she says, and it’s an odd thing to be called, now. ”There’s been no raven yet, but I’m holding out to midday before I leave.”

”You do as you please, _my lady,”_ he answers. ”I’m going.”

”Going?” There is wariness in her voice. ”Where?”

”Saltpans, I reckon. It could—”

”Running away? After you’ve come this far? I should have—”

”I’m going to Gulltown. Approach the Gates from the east.”

”Oh.” She looks at him. Sits down. ”You really ought to wait for the raven. Otherwise, you may be heading to Gulltown all the while she’s safely on her way back here.”

Sandor _has_ thought of that. But between waiting and doing nothing, and doing the wrong thing, there is really no good choice. _Perhaps I could wait, just a little while. Just to make certain_. 

”What was that about marching North yesterday? You have an army all of a sudden?”

”No,” she says, and a boy puts down a tankard of ale in front of her. ”But I have soldiers.”

”And where did you find these soldiers? They sprout from the ground?”

She gives him a long look. ”Did you tell her? About… When…”

He knows what she means. ”Yes.”

She leans forward, urgently. ”Did she ask about me?”

”No,” he says, because she wouldn’t answer him about the soldiers. But she seems to accept it, leans back slowly and traces the lines in the wooden table with her finger.

”Was she… happy?”

_Happy?_ He’s not certain he knows what she means. He thinks of Sansa’s eyes shining with laughter as she spoke with Lady Royce, of her deep in concentration, head bent over an embroidery, of her holding her husband’s hand at banquets. He thinks of her in the mornings, a steaming cup of secret moon tea in her hands, staring out that window like a statue observing the living, thinks of her going very still as Littlefinger stroked her hair during their meetings.

”I don’t know,” he says, although he thinks he has an idea.

—

The man from yesterday, the one who stubbornly stood behind the she-wolf like a badly trained guard, is a blacksmith, he learns. The crossbow girl, Willow, runs the inn with her sister. Most of the children are war orphans, but the soldiers remain a mystery.

”We— They served someone else, before,” says the blacksmith when Sandor asks. ”M’lady… well, she made sure they didn’t anymore. There was a speech. Some joined her, some didn’t. Some are new.”

This only gives him more questions. The she-wolf doesn’t shine with the same light her sister does, doesn’t weigh her words. He’ll have to ask her again, he knows, has to know who these people are that Sansa is to be brought to. He’s already agreed to wait, to join the she-wolf and search west if no raven arrives. He wonders what Sansa will say when she sees her sister again. _Perhaps she’ll have no more need for me. She’ll have family. And soldiers. No need for an old dog_. He knows he’ll pale in comparison.

Still, his memory is always retracing its steps back to that final night before everything went to shit. _Trust this_. He should have done so, should have shown her trust instead of fear and anger. But they were strange and new, those sensations she brought to his mind and body. Sandor wonders if perhaps they shouldn’t be strange, wonders if this is just another side-effect of a half-burnt face. His body was always a place of violence, but now, he’s not so sure that’s all it ought to be.

He is called back to the study just before midday. The she-wolf is there, as is another young soldier, this one with pale blond hair and watchful eyes. He holds two raven-scrolls in his hand, and Sandor can see a large sigil-ring on a chain around his neck. _Highborn_.

”They’ve found her!” the she-wolf nearly shouts, and his heart just as nearly stops. ”They’re on their way back on the High Road.”

”That’s a dangerous path. I’m riding to meet them.”

”Of course. And I’m coming with you,” she says. Sandor's heart sinks.

”L—lady Arya, is that wise? With the news—” The highborn soldier twists the scrolls between his fingers, nervously.

”I’m going, Edric. It’ll only be two days, at the most.”

”News?” Sandor is impatient, his mind already halfway through saddling Stranger by now.

”From King’s Landing. It’s nothing to us, as long as we get on the road North soon enough.” She turns to the soldier. ”Be ready to leave when we get back.”

The soldier nods, and leaves the room.

”So.” She gets up from her high-backed chair, and for just a fraction of a second, he thinks she holds herself with a very familiar straight-backed pride. ”We should get going, Hound.”

 

 

 

 

 


	23. Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another interlude

It is a foggy, cold morning when the dragons come to King’s Landing. They arrive from the west, and though reports from Lannisport had arrived of colossal, monstrous beasts in the sky they had been dismissed as the blind fear of fools after years of war. The Ironmen knew, of course, had received ravens from the Lonely Light weeks and weeks ago of the dragons, and the black-and-red-sailed fleet that sailed with them. King Euron sailed himself to meet the rumored Targaryen queen, and has not been seen or heard of since.

But that was three months ago.

Now, there is a great terror in the sky, flying over Flea Bottom, screeching like the tortured souls of all seven hells. One flies over the entire city and perches on top of the White Sword Tower, cream-and-gold wings glimmering in the pale morning. Two others circle over the city like birds of prey, before they land on Visenya’s Hill, on the plaza before the Great Sept of Baelor. Though at first the people of the city hid in terror, not a single ember has sparked from the great jaws of the beasts, and as drummers dismount from the smaller, green dragon in the plaza, smallfolk and merchants are soon lured out by the rhythmic sound. They keep their distance, of course, those who can huddle in their windows facing the plaza, others creep along alleys to peek out at the dragons. The larger one almost rivals the Great Sept itself in size. It has shiny, black scales partly covered in armor; a strange, intricate construction in some glimmering red metal. As the dust settles and the fog lifts around the plaza, the drummers fall silent and the rider of the black dragon dismounts by a rope ladder.

Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons, is a slight woman, clad in armor made from the same red metal her dragon wears. Her hair is cut off at her earlobes and silvery white, decorated with small silver bells that chime softly in the dead silence of the plaza as she walks.

_At last_ , thinks the Spider as he watches from a balcony, _she is here_. His breath turns to white mist as he exhales a shaky breath. _She came with winter, this our Queen of Fire_. He followed her campaign as far as he could, receiving reports from as far away as Jinqi before the last one arrived: _"The Mother of Dragons has passed under the Shadow._ _Will not pursue_. _"_ And so he waited. The Spider always expected a new report from Jinqi of her return, but none came. Of all the possible outcomes, even he did not expect _this_. For her to pass under the Shadow and travel beyond, across the Sunset Sea until east became west… It is unheard of. 

The prince is in the Stormlands, still, fighting petty fights and winning petty victories. It is _her_ they need. She has ruled in her own right, has seen the mysteries and wonders of the world, has renown across Essos and Westeros alike, has them all trapped in their own city with three mythical beasts made for killing. Yes, she will do.

The Spider considers his options, mentally tugs at strings until his path is clear before him. A woman’s _(a Queen’s)_ voice is heard from the plaza, and the world seems to hold its breath. _Why is it always by the Sept of Baelor?_ Before nightfall, he knows, all seven bells of the sept will toll at once. He has work to do, and the day has only just begun.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for my lack of updates lately, but please know that I have no intention of abandoning this fic. I was ambitious when I planned it out(and I was also a lot less busy), trying to pull at every loose thread in this vast storyverse, and I'm trying to scale it down a bit to make it more manageable for me.  
> As always, thank you for reading, and I hope you liked it!


	24. Sansa IX

Sansa Stark, lady of Winterfell and princess of the North, is tied to a horse.

It’s a necessity, according to the strange warrior-maiden who calls herself Brienne. Sansa still gets dizzy spells, even two days after she was thrown off of ser Olyn’s horse. Lady Brienne sits behind her on the saddle, to keep her steady and upright even if she faints again. Podrick fumbles as he loosens the rope around her legs when they stop to rest. It’s all terribly undignified, and it does nothing to make Sansa trust her new rescuers. 

She has not made up her mind whether she believes Lady Brienne’s story to be true yet. It’s all too much for her to take in at once, especially with her mind still getting foggy as soon as she tries to focus on something too long. She _wants_ to trust Lady Brienne, of course, wants to believe that her lady mother sent her and that Arya is waiting for her at the end of all this. But Sansa’s life is no song, and hasn’t been since that fateful day when she left Winterfell with the King’s retinue all those years ago. Lady Brienne carries Lannister gold in the hilt of her sword. Podrick is harmless enough, is still shy around her, but he served her Lannister husband. She remembers them sending a raven, though she doesn’t know to whom, and she doesn’t yet trust her memories to be true. _Ever at the mercy of others, be they ill-intended or not,_ she thinks, not without bitterness.

It seems unfair to her that she, the heiress of house Stark, should still be under the control of the whims of others. Something washes over her when she realizes that yes, she _does_ stand to inherit her father. She has long known that she is the key to the North, but that was meant for others, for those who sought to cloak her into their own House for her claim. Now, she is a widow. Widows have claimed land and led armies and, indeed, ruled, on their own.

_What an odd thought_.

Odd, yes, but appealing in a way she does not expect. Sansa fell far too easily into her position back at the Gates of the Moon, performing her duties as were expected of a wedded highborn lady all while she danced carefully between Petyr, Lord Robert and Harry, alternating whom she took along for a few twirls, carefully changing a step here or there. But ultimately, if Petyr had decided there was to be no more dancing and no more Harry or Sweetrobin, there would have been little she could do without getting the Lords Declarant on her side.

But to be _free_ …

Sansa quickly shoves the childish thought aside; thinks of her lord father, burdened by love and duty. Thinks of Queen Cersei, grasping at power, seething with a rage and bitterness that only grew with every passing day. She even thinks of Petyr, never resting, never letting himself be ruled by anything other than his never-ending ambition. _There is no such thing as freedom,_ she thinks.

Perhaps she could escape this lady and her squire, somehow find Sandor, and flee to the Free Cities. They could sell the rest of her jewelry and spend their days in summer silk, lost to the world among the sun-kissed streets of Lys.

But even the fleeting shadow of a hope of seeing Arya again is too much for her to abandon. And Lady Brienne is well-mannered, not practiced and well-spoken like Ser Olyn was, but grave and courteous like a girl’s dream of a knight. _A true knight, at last_. She offers Sansa the first sip of her water skin, and gently steadies her when she sways in the saddle. On the evening of the second day, Sansa watches Lady Brienne across the fire. The Seven have not been generous with this woman. Her nose is uneven, as are her teeth, and there’s a grisly scar on her cheek. But her eyes are large and beautifully blue, shining like her brilliant, but dented, cobalt steel armor. _Ugly and kind,_ Sansa thinks, and is strangely enough reminded of her first husband. 

”We should reach the inn the day after tomorrow,” says Lady Brienne, more directed at Podrick than at Sansa. 

Their pace is slow, and it’s Sansa’s fault. Her dizziness forces them to stop frequently. Perhaps, she hopes, it will be easier tomorrow. There is a part of her mind that never lets her forget the chance of Arya actually being there, actually being alive, and it has her frustrated with herself for slowing them down. They travel on the High Road now, and though the road is dangerous, it’s her best chance of finding Sandor. _Sandor_. He, too, is with her in her mind, and she hopes he is safe. She’ll find him, one way or the other. _I’ve lived for years without him, and now after only a few days apart I can’t seem to bear it_. _How odd,_ she thinks, although it isn’t, and she knows it. 

She does not get much sleep that night.

—

”My lady.”

A hand on her shoulder. Sansa shivers. The morning is still pale, and up here in the hills a fine mist creeps along the ground. Slowly, she sits up, and her breath turns white and mingles with the mist that dances away from her movements. Lady Brienne offers a hand, and Sansa takes it. Gingerly standing up, she finds that for now, at least, her dizziness is kept at bay.

”Thank you, Lady Brienne.”

Encouraged by her own steadiness, she squares her shoulders and smooths down the front of her dress. She has survived beatings and humiliations, has survived being wed to the enemy; surely, she will survive another day of this. She turns expectantly to Lady Brienne. She can hear Podrick packing up her improvised bedroll behind her. Lady Brienne gives her an odd look.

”You are very much like your mother, my lady.”

Sansa stills. _Mother_. Unthinking, her hand reaches up to touch her hair, forgetting that it no longer bears any trace of her mother’s red. She meets Lady Brienne’s honest eyes and something hard falls from her heart; in its place a small, but dangerous warmth.

She is not tied to the horse that day. She even manages to keep her back straight in the saddle. The morning frost clings to the grass, and it brings her a small sense of comfort. They make better speed without having to stop so often; Sansa keeps her dizzy spells to herself, grips hard on the pommel of the saddle — she _will_ reach the inn today. She grasps blindly in her mind for strength, for the cold winds of the North, and sets herself to steel. 

—

The skin on Sansa’s arms prickle even before she hears the sound. Riders. Not the tired squeaking of a cart being pulled, not the swift light _clop_ of a rouncey, but the heavy trot of warhorses. They’ve not yet ridden for an hour. She cranes her neck to look at Lady Brienne but finds no reassurance in her tensed jaw. They stop just by a crook in the road, waiting behind a rock formation. Podrick urges his horse forward to stand in front of Sansa and Lady Brienne’s horse. _Brave squire_.

As soon as the first horse starts coming around the rocks Sansa’s heart soars. She knows that wild black mane, knows that worn bridle and its embellished brasses.

”Sandor!”

She almost throws herself off of the horse, but Lady Brienne quickly wraps her arm around her waist. She struggles fruitlessly, in the moment not caring for propriety or dignity, and that’s when the second rider rounds the rocks.

The woman riding with Sandor is a stone statue from Winterfell’s crypts sprung to life. High cheekbones, like her own, but the eyes are a steely grey, the hair dark brown. She rides astride on the horse, like a man, like Lady Brienne and Mya Stone. She stares, wide-eyed, at Sansa, and it’s when their eyes meet that Sansa’s heart seems to start beating again.

_”Arya,”_ she breathes out, the name slipping out almost on its own, and she pulls at the arm around her desperately. Lady Brienne seems to have the good sense to let her go at that, and Sansa slides down the saddle onto unsteady legs. Her sister — _sister, sister, sister, Arya, alive after all these years I have a sister_ — dismounts as well, but she looks almost afraid, frozen in place. Sansa has no time for uncertainty. Her heart is in her throat and she stumbles and almost runs, closing the distance between them. Throwing her arms around Arya — _you’ve grown so much almost as tall as I am Arya oh gods_ — she clutches her fiercely, stroking her hair, burying her face against her shoulder, refusing to let go. Part of her registers that a third rider has appeared, but then she feels Arya draw a shuddering breath, melt against her, and return the embrace. 

”I’m sorry,” she whispers into Arya’s hair, ”I’m so sorry.”

Arya makes a sound that Sansa decides isn’t a sob. Arya never liked it when people saw her cry. Very slowly, she loosens her embrace until she can get a proper look at her sister. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and there is a tremble to her lower lip, better than Alayne ever mastered.

”I’m sorry, too,” Arya says, and the voice is a woman’s but the fierce blinking to keep the tears at bay is so distinctly her sister. Sansa sighs, not to cry herself, kisses Arya’s cheeks, and embraces her again.

Finally, Sansa lets go, but she keeps a hand on Arya’s shoulder, keeps running her fingers through her tangled dark hair. The world around them is slowly falling into place, but it’s oddly jumbled, and keeps shifting around her. _Sandor_. She turns, swiftly, still a hand on Arya’s shoulder, and there he is, next to another man Sansa doesn’t recognize, perhaps because his face keeps evading her focus. The ground tilts, and for a moment she thinks she is back on the ship — _the Maelstrom,_ she remembers — but that’s not right.

”My lady!” she hears Lady Brienne shout, just as Sandor and Arya shout her name. _Oh, no_. Slender arms grip her just as her legs fold beneath her, and the world fades to white.

—

It’s her sister’s eyes she sees when she wakes up. They are wide and worried, and their gaze fall on Sansa like sunshine. 

”Arya,” she whispers through a weak smile.

”Stupid,” her sister replies with that deep voice. ”You should be more careful. Brienne told me you hit your head.”

”I did,” Sansa admits. ”Clumsy.”

”You were _thrown off a horse.”_

”Well,” she answers, but can’t find anything else to say, so she falls silent. Closes her eyes again, just for a moment. Her head pulsates with pain. 

”Stupid,” Arya says again, and Sansa doesn’t mind.

”Your voice,” Sansa says, though her eyes are still closed. ”I bet you sing beautifully.”

Arya says something, but Sansa loses track of what as something else occupies her mind. She opens her eyes and tries to lift her head to look around.

”Sandor?”

He’s there, sitting a few paces away, but his eyes are on her. Relief washes over her, and she lets her head fall back onto something soft that’s been placed under her.

”I’m here, girl,” comes that rasping voice, and she feels herself smile.

”You’re addressing a _lady,”_ comes Lady Brienne’s voice.

Sansa collects her strength as much as she is able and pulls herself up to a sitting position.

”He saved my life,” she says. ”More than once.”

Arya’s eyes dart from Sandor to Sansa, but she says nothing. She has sat back on her heels to give Sansa room. Suddenly, Sansa realizes they are all just _sitting_ here. They’re in a small clearing behind the rock formation that they waited behind. The horses are bound up on her other side, away from the road, and Podrick is tending to Lady Brienne’s destrier. She can see that other man from before, as well, sitting by Arya’s other side. His hair is short and black, and a shadow of a beard covers his square jaw. 

”I’ve delayed us,” Sansa realizes, suddenly mortified.

”We can afford a quick rest while you recover, my lady,” says Lady Brienne. ”We can press on later and still reach the inn before nightfall.”

Sansa’s gaze is drawn back to her sister, almost involuntarily. She wants to ask her so much, wants to tell her everything, but not here. Not now. Arya suddenly seems to remember herself and gestures towards the man beside her.

”This is _Ser_ Gendry of the hollow hill,” she says, smirking as she emphasizes the title. ”Gendry, this is my sister, Sansa Stark.”

Sansa is not in the business of smirking. ”Good day, ser.”

”M’lady.”

_Oh_. Is this yet another butcher’s boy her sister keeps as company? His face reddens even as he says it, probably knowing how telling it is.

_”Ser,_ is it now?” It’s Sandor, with some old, familiar mockery in his voice.

”He _is_ knighted,” Arya snaps back, apparently claiming the sole proprietorship to Mocking Ser Gendry.

”I’m mostly a smith,” mumbles Ser Gendry, still blushing, but Arya and Sandor pays no heed. They begin bickering back and forth, and Sansa, relieved that they’re at least not killing each other, slowly closes her eyes again where she sits. It helps keep the ground steady, she finds. Arya’s voice cuts through to her, and she follows its melody, recognizes some of it, and tries to get used to the new parts. Her sister never enunciated so much when they were little.

She opens her eyes. Sandor is still much too far away from her. Sansa wants to reach out her hand to him, wants to rest against his chest like when they rode together, but they are not alone here. After weeks in the woods, and spending time at the septry, Sansa seems to have blissfully forgotten about their difference in standing. She listens dully as Arya tells her of the soldiers, _her_ soldiers, that are waiting for them, tells her of her plan to reclaim the North. _This is what I wanted, isn’t it?_ But in the end, it’s just more fighting. It’s more battles to be fought, more death, and this time, Sansa is not hidden away in a castle. 

”We don’t have the men, Arya.”

But her voice is a sigh, and the others are discussing their options. Sansa decides that this is not the time.

—

Her head slowly clears the fog from itself, it’s time to leave. There is a brief moment of hesitation when they realize that Sansa has no horse of her own. Torn between wanting to be close to her sister and the familiarity of riding with Sandor, Sansa is relieved when Podrick gallantly gives up his horse for her and rides with Brienne. She doesn’t think her sharing a horse with Sandor would be received well with the others, either. He rides close beside her, and the few stolen glances they manage to exchange are short. On her other side is Arya. It took some convincing for her sister to agree that Sansa was well enough to ride on her own.

Thankfully, the world is stable enough as she rides. There is a chill in the air. Brienne rides in front of them with Podrick. Sansa wraps her cloak tightly around herself, and falls into the comforting rhythm of her horse’s walk.

”I’d been told you were married.”

”I was,” says Sansa. ”Harry’s dead.”

”I see.”

Sansa doesn’t know if Arya doesn’t have any condolences for her because she doesn’t think them necessary, or because she doesn’t care. She took note of her sister’s many weapons before: a small sword, familiar but strange, two daggers, a crossbow on her back. _Have we both turned cold to the world?_ She hopes they haven’t. She doesn’t think she could bear it if her own cynicism also lived in her little sister’s heart. She hears Sandor shift in his saddle and turns to him.

”Got your dagger.”

He holds it out to her. He is a comforting presence beside her, and she wants to melt into him, to be enveloped by him. But she only reaches out and accepts the dagger, feeling the ornate handle in her hand.

”Thank you, Sandor. I thought it lost.”

”May be your sister can teach you how to wield it properly.”

Sansa’s heart sinks, though she doesn’t know why. ”Yes. Perhaps.”

—

Evenfall darkens the sky when they reach the Crossroads Inn. Sansa recognizes it from all those years ago, and with a chill in her chest she remembers what happened the last time they were there. But something is different. An encampment stretches out behind it, along the riverbank. She can only make out the contour of it in the half-dark, some of it is dimly lit by low-burning braziers. And above the entrance…

Sansa almost sobs when she sees it. A stark — in every sense of the word — white banner, emblazoned with her House’s direwolf. _This is it. This is real_. 

They are met by two tired-looking young women. Arya introduces them as Jeyne and Willow, and they both stare at Sansa, wide-eyed, before they offer unpracticed curtseys. Sansa is shown to a room on the upper floor, one with a large featherbed, and — _thank the seven_ — a bath. Arya follows her, keeps a hand behind her back in the stairs, apparently not trusting that she can walk without fainting. Willow leaves just as Podrick enters the room with her belongings. She does not know where Sandor is. 

Standing in the middle of the room, looking at the steaming tub, Sansa can hear Podrick leave quietly. Arya is hesitating by the door.

”I…” Arya clears her throat. ”We found a robe for you. It’s not — It’s linen. But it’s clean.”

Sansa looks at the bed, where a blue, embroidered robe is laid out for her. She smiles at her sister.

”Thank you.”

Arya nods, opens the door, and stops halfway out. Her head is still turned away when her voice comes, small this time:

”You’ll still be here tomorrow, won’t you?”

Sansa feels as though her heart is breaking even as she smiles:

”Of course I’ll be here, Arya. Sleep well.”

—

The dye washes from her hair fairly easily. Sansa wraps herself in the worn robe, sits down on the bed and slowly combs through her long tresses. The hot water on her skin has left her feeling stronger than she can remember feeling in weeks, and she even catches herself humming as she works though her hair. She wonders where Sandor sleeps, and if his chamber feels as big and empty as hers does. It’s completely dark outside her closed shutters, no light seeps in through the gaps, but she doesn’t feel tired. She feels as thought she’s slept for weeks and when she’s finally awake, the world has gone quiet. And then there’s Sandor.

_I found him, but it doesn’t feel like it_. Is this how their lives are to be from now on? She doesn’t think she can bear it if she’ll spend her days being so close to him and not _with_ him. Some noise seeps in through her wall from the hall downstairs. Even though they are apparently to set out the next day, people are still enjoying ale and song. Sansa did not speak to anyone in the hall when she passed through, but they all nodded their respect to her sister. She sighs and puts the comb down.

This is when the knock comes.

Sansa stares at her door. Three short raps. She didn’t even bother barring it, she realizes now. _Stupid,_ echoes her sister’s voice in her mind. She’s in a crowded inn full of strangers. But that knock is no stranger. Heart in her throat, she calls out:

”Enter.”

This time, it _is_ him.

He closes the door behind him, carefully, and turns to look at her, but not _at_ her, she finds: his gaze is flickering from the tub, to the comb beside her, to her hair soaking her robe, to—

”Sandor.” Her voice is a breath of relief, but she dares not rise to greet him. He still lingers by the door.

”I thought—” He has the velvet pouch in his hand, the one she left him, she can see now. He has washed his face. ”I thought you’d want your things. Didn’t seem right for me to have them.”

”Oh.”

”I—” He swallows, and she lets her eyes roam his face freely, searching for something, _anything_. ”I’ll come back on the morrow.”

”Please,” she says. ”Sit.”

He doesn’t hesitate. There’s a spindly chair by the wall, and it creaks under his weight. He meets her gaze now, and nods at her hair.

”Got your red back.” The burnt side of his mouth twitches.

”Yes. It seemed like we were well past pretending.” She hopes he will catch the double meaning of her words.

”Got your sister back, too.”

”Yes.” She takes a deep breath, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks again. ”It seems you found her for me.”

”She wanted to kill me.”

”Yes, well. It would seem she has her reasons.” Sansa tries a small smile, and hopes he does not place weight behind her words. 

He says nothing.

”Sandor.” She tries to still her fluttering heart. ”Before— That night— ”

”You were grieving,” he says, almost too quickly. ”I won’t hold you to anything you did.”

Sansa goes very still. But the immediate anger that flares up is soon tempered by her compassion — _is he so unused to affection?_ And so she breathes deeply once, twice, and smiles again.

”Do you truly think me so callous?” She tilts her head, willing him to see her honesty. ”I meant every word.”

He swallows. ”L— _Sansa_ , I—”

She understands. He is unsure, just as she is, and, perhaps, afraid. They are not alone anymore. But the corner of his mouth still twitches, his eyes linger on her exposed collarbone, and he shifts in his chair. She wants to hear him say her name again. She wants —

The empty space between them suddenly feels very cold, and vast, and she does not like it at all. No, not one bit. _This is dangerous,_ a small voice in her mind reminds her. There are greater things at play, her home, her birthright — they should be her one goal. She considers him, sitting there: such a great, big obstacle of a man, dimming her view when her path should have been clear. But things are not as they were. She considers her position: a widow, with no-one but herself to answer to. Her sister is back with her, now, and by some miracle they might be able to shape their lives after their own wills. It’s such a unique position for women of their birth; it would be a waste not to make use of it. 

Reclaiming this one final piece of herself, she rises, and lets her robe slide down her shoulders.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And I'll, um, 
> 
> I guess I'll hurry up with that next chapter


	25. Sandor IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which The Author Gives The Explicit Tag A Long, Hard Stare

Sandor Clegane attended his first tourney at ten years old. His father brought him along. Gregor, newly knighted, was to participate in the melee, and Sandor’s father no doubt hoped that watching his brother’s prowess would inspire some appetite for violence in Sandor, as well. The Cleganes were but landed knights, and the surest way into riches were to impress some high lord enough that they would bring you into paid service. 

Sandor was, as was evident by his burned face, already accustomed to violence at this age, though he was still too young to have learned to make it more palatable with the help of strongwine. It had only been a matter of time, of course. Just over a year later his father and sister would be dead, and Sandor would learn to drink, and kill, and rage.

But not just yet.

The sun stood high over Harrenhal, and hundreds of bright banners waved in the breeze. During the joust, he was seated with his father among the commoners, just below the highstand. House Clegane had of course not been invited to the previous days of festivities, but at the time, Sandor wasn’t even aware he had missed anything. Knight after knight in splendid armour rode past him, each more extravagant than the last. Some stood out, even among these distinguished knights; the prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, outshone them all in his ruby-set night black armour. The Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne, was there, the greatsword Dawn slung across his back. _’He defeated the Smiling Knight’_ , young Sandor had thought, with an admiration that was then still with him.

Despite himself, Sandor was swept away, just for a few hours, into a dream of a world he knew to be false. Lances were splintering, banners waved high, knights wore the favors of ladies seated in the highstand. _’Maybe’_ , young Sandor had allowed himself to think, _’maybe I simply got in at the wrong verse of the song’_. The thought was short-lived. Prince Rhaegar, resplendent in his victory, rode to the highstand with the crown of winter roses at the tip of his lance. Sandor’s eyes immediately went to the princess, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. He saw her hands smooth down the front of her dress, saw a dark-haired lady rearrange the princess’ curls that spilled down her shoulders to lie just so. And then Rhaegar Targaryen, anointed knight and Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, passed over his wife for a young maid further down the grandstand.

When Sandor thinks back on it, she could not have been much older than the chirping little bird he would meet so many years later. He remembers looking at the princess and seeing her straight-backed, a forced calm over her shoulders, her mouth a thin line, every inch dignified and ladylike. He did not understand then why she didn’t rage and scream at her weak-willed husband. Her ladies-in-waiting were equally still and silent around her. He remembers men shouting on either side of the young maid, whose posture and expression mirrored that of the princess’. 

Since that day, Sandor has seen that expression mirrored over and over again. He saw it in the face of Cersei Lannister, seated beside her drunk husband at banquets. He saw it fall into place over the face of the first whore he ever bought. Thinking back, he remembers it in the face of his own mother. And, of course, in the face of a frightened Northern girl as she braved the court in King’s Landing day after day. Perhaps that was why he provoked her. Perhaps he wanted to break through that wall of courtesy once and for all.

It shames him to admit that it was not until far more recently that he understood. After he first found Sansa crying in an orchard, vivid and alive and _feeling_ , he thought she had finally broken out of that hard shell. But then her husband would make a bawdy jape at the high table at the evening meal, and there it was, and Littlefinger would stroke her hair and kiss her forehead, and there it was. And finally, Sandor was sober and calm and grown enough to see it. He remembered the Brotherhood without Banners, how the peasants that had joined up were clad in ill-fitting armour, assembled from scraps and what they had access to. In war, you protect yourself in whatever way you can, and for some, the only armour you’re allowed is silk and courtesies.

He looks at her now and realizes that he’s never before seen her so unprotected. Vulnerable, yes, he’s seen her drunk and angry and crying, but _this_. Her eyes are fixed on him, sparkling in the candlelight, her lips slightly parted. Damp red-again-hair falls freely around her shoulders, and the wet stains from it on her robe—

She moves closer, full of intent, her shoulders relaxed and calm. A minimal shrug and — _seven hells_ — the robe slides down one pale shoulder, then the other. _This_ _sure as fuck isn’t a courtesy_. Sandor realizes he has drawn back towards the wall behind him. _Courtesies don’t scare me shitless_. He takes a deep, shaky breath that is louder than he intended it to be. She notices, and stills. Raises one eyebrow.

”Do you want to leave?”

Her voice is low, as soft as her lips were on his when she kissed him that night. Sandor wants to rush to her, wants to rip that robe off of her, but he remembers. All those times she’s flinched with his sudden movements. The last time he allowed himself to get lost in needing her, he hurt and frightened her. _I was drunk, then,_ he reminds himself, but he forces himself to stay still just in case.

”No,” he manages, and his voice is just above a whisper.

Her face immediately brightens, and it seems odd to Sandor that it’s for _him_.

”Good,” she says. ”I’d like you to stay, if it please you.”

Her pale skin is luminous in the low light — _Like, fuck, milk? No, some flower, in the songs, it’s_ — like lilies, those cream-white, almost translucent flowers from Yi Ti that grew in the gardens of the Red Keep. Her hair — _fuck, am I going to wax poetic like a green lad because of a pair of bare shoulders?_ He tries desperately to clear his mind, rising from his rickety chair almost involuntarily, and —

It’s not just the shoulders, anymore. He just about registers movement around her before he realizes it’s her robe, floating down her body like water and pooling around her feet. It’s all he can do to just stand and stare. She looks him straight in the eye and straightens her back, as if daring him to look.

And, well, Sandor is used to service. He is not one to disobey.

Oddly enough, it’s still the shoulders that draw his gaze first. He’s followed their movements for so long, watched for tension, seen her deliberately pull them back as she straightens her back. Now, seeing them bare for the first time, pale and rounded, he is hit with the sudden urge to kiss them. _Strange dog_. He has seen her bend her head in shame before, in King's Landing, and she was dressed in fine silk then. Now, completely bare in front of him, there is not a single trace of shame, or even abashment, in her eyes.  _And there shouldn't be_. He allows his eyes to wander, letting his gaze caress her breasts, slide down her waist, round the curve of her hips, down her long legs. _Perfect,_ he finds himself thinking, perfect in the way that if he ever had an idea of perfection before this moment, it is now irrevocably changed.

He must have stood staring for a while, because she tilts her head and smiles softly. With a movement that startles him out of his daze, she nimbly steps out of her robe on the floor, and holds out her hand to him. There is nothing for Sandor to do but to take it. It’s warm, and soft, and small in his, and then. She turns — and he follows her hair with his eyes at it falls down her back, ending just at the two dimples above her bottom, and down his eyes go, watches as her hips sway with her steps and then, she stops. Pulls him around her until he is seated on the edge of her bed. Sandor’s heart is hammering in his chest. _Seven hells, this is happening_. A soft hand strokes the burnt side of his face, and he leans into her touch, realizing now how starved he has been of it. Though the sensation is dulled by his scars, her touch seems to spread through his body, turning every nerve on edge.

She is a courteous, dutiful little bird. He knows this. But it is not duty when she steps closer, eyes still fixed on his, crawling up on the bed. Instinctually, Sandor pulls himself up towards the head of the bed. Swallowing hard, he puts his hand around her bare waist, and pulls her along.

It’s all the encouragement she needs.

Sansa falls on him like a devastation, plundering his mind of coherence and setting his body ablaze with want. Her mouth is on his, then on his neck, nibbling his good ear, making him suddenly gasp for air. He closes his eyes, and lets his hands roam over her back, grabbing her neck and waist and swiftly pulls himself above her. She yelps in surprise and then she’s on her back, red hair spilling out across the pillows.  _Beautiful_. Her face is flushed, and just as he is about to bend down and kiss her long neck, he realizes she has reached down to untie his belt. As she tosses it aside, he sits back on his heels and pulls his tunic over his head. She lifts herself up on her elbows as he rids himself of the rest of his clothing, all courtly manners gone as she eyes his obvious arousal. He strokes one pink nipple with his thumb, because he can’t not anymore, and lowers to take the other one in his mouth. He has wanted her for too long to resist his temptations. She gasps, sharply, and presses his head against her. But his satisfaction is cut short when she suddenly shakes. _Is she crying?_ Immediately worried, he stops his ministrations to look at her.

She is _laughing_.

”What?” he growls, feeling that he is the butt of a joke he does not understand.

”Oh, no, I—” she shakes with another fit of laughter. ”I just— do you still believe this to be gratitude?”

”Is this a jape to you?” He frowns.

”Kiss me,” she smiles, and he does.

She is eager, and that is new to him. He is eager, too, of course, is almost vibrating with wanting her, but there is still a part in his mind that believes that this is all a mistake, that she will wake in the morning and have changed her mind. _Well,_ he decides, _if she does, best make the most of it_. 

”Sit up,” he tells her, allowing her room to do so. She gives him a puzzled look, but does as she is bid. He lies down, and pulls her leg over his shoulder until she is straddling his neck.

”Sandor? I—” She sounds almost worried as he grabs her bottom with both hand and pushes her up towards his mouth.

”Is there a problem?” he grins up at her from between her thighs.

”No, well, I just— It seems physically improb— _Oh!”_

Fuck, but she is the sweetest thing he ever tasted. He explores her with his tongue while stroking himself with one hand, allowing her moans and gasps to fill his mind until there is nothing else. _Sing, little bird_. It is not long until she loses herself as well, grabs his hair to hold him in place just so, and sings, and sings, and sings.

She collapses above him, still catching her breath and vibrating with pleasure, bonelessly letting him pull her beneath himself once more, sighing as he trails kisses along her jaw.

Kissing jaws is not something Sandor ever thought he’d be tempted to do, but it’s there, and it’s hers, and he wants to. He can feel her smile and hears a soft humming as he grabs her hips and pulls her closer, bracing himself above her.

”Is this how you want me, little bird?” he hears himself say, low as a growl, and her entire body shivers. _Interesting_. Her breathing comes quick, moving her pale breasts in such a way that he has no choice but to reach and cup one, stroking her nipple with a slow circling of his thumb.

She swallows. When her voice finally comes, it’s unsteady, and he likes that.

”Yes,” she gasps, _”please.”_

Sandor takes a deep breath and lowers himself to brush a soft kiss against her forehead. Then, he enters her with one long thrust, and fucks her as though it was his last night on this earth.

It hits him moments later that perhaps this was not what she intended. But her legs are wrapped around him tightly, her long fingers grasp his hair, and he cannot muster the will to speculate. It’s odd. Sandor has wanted women before in his life, has spent silver dragons on pretty whores, and it has always been a practiced, quick, almost perfunctory affair. And now here _she_ is, gasping and humming and _smiling_ , almost, clinging to him so desperately. He finds himself murmuring things in her ear he never thought he’d tell another human being, finds himself burrowing his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her. Sandor feels ecstatic and vulnerable all at once, and it almost frightens him.

He doesn’t know what to say, after. Sinking down above her, he holds her close and strokes her hair for as many moments as he dares to. This, too, is new to him. As gently as he knows how he eases out of her, causing her to inhale sharply through her teeth. They lie beside each other for a long while, neither one daring to speak for fear of their reality coming too close. He wonders if they were loud enough to be heard outside, and what awaits them on the other side of her door. He’s spent enough time at court to know how willingly people will turn on each other over gossip. He cannot let her face that, not again. 

The bed creaks as he sits up, slowly, and it’s odd that he didn’t notice the creaking before. It only serves to make him more anxious. 

”Are you leaving?”

Her voice is small beside him, and his shoulder is cold without her presence near it.

”Too many people here.” He looks around in the low light. A couple of the wax candles have burned down, but some still flicker bravely. Somehow, his breeches have ended up on the floor by the door. There is rustling beside him.

”Do you want to leave?” she asks for the second time that evening, her voice stronger now, every inch the lady Stark.

_I want to stay here and fuck you and hold you until we both die from it,_ he thinks.

”No,” he says.

A hand rests on his shoulder, pulls him back down. She sits beside him, still completely bare, and cups his face with her hands. _Fuck, she is beautiful_.

”Then don’t,” she says. ”Leave on the morrow. There is time.”

_Time for what?_ he wants to ask, but then her lips are on his again, and all questions disappear from his mind.

The second time is slow, almost lazy; they lie on their sides, him behind her, moving in slow, deliberate strokes while letting his hands roam freely. At some point she takes his hand and shows him how to touch her. He is grateful; this is more her realm than his, it seems, and as her breathing becomes ragged and he feels her clench around his length he sees stars, and it’s with her name on his lips that he spills inside of her.

—

Later, he is sprawled on his back, completely and utterly spent, and she is nestled into his side. She pulls her fingers lightly across his chest, tracing the edges of ragged scars and draws lines in invisible patterns. Sandor cannot remember ever being touched in such a way before; innocently and intimately all at once.

”Aye, little bird,” he chuckles when she draws a circle, ”that’s where the heart is.” _And if I’ll die by any hand let it be yours_.

”Strange man,” is all she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice.

He closes his eyes and feels her molded against his side; so unguarded, not a single shard of armor left. He thinks of himself, long ago, a starry-eyed child watching banners wave with grand dreams of knights and valor. But that was taken from him, and he was left broken and vicious; a snarling hound with nothing but contempt for the world. And here _she_ is. The little bird with dreams and romantic notions of songs has been broken over and over again, in the worst of ways, and yet here she is, smiling. He would not believe such a thing possible. _It’s because she’s not a worthless piece of shit only good for killing, dog_. But she sighs contentedly beside him, nestled into the crook of his arm. _Not just for killing, anymore,_ he thinks.

—

Dawn seeps in through the cracks of the shutters when he wakes. Sandor can’t remember waking from such a deep sleep in a long time. In the woods, there was the constant awareness of their surroundings, and even before that, in the Vale, he was never much of a heavy sleeper. Perhaps all he needed was a featherbed. _Liar_.

But something is wrong.

Where the memory of her warm body lingers by his side there is now just an empty space. Still sleep-dazed, he reaches for her but finds only empty sheets. He lifts himself up on his elbows.

She has her back to him, seated on the edge of the bed, wrapped in the blue robe. In her hand is the comb from yesterday, and she works through her tangled hair slowly and methodically. On a wooden stool by the bed stands a steaming cup, and the sight of it fills him with something he can’t quite place. He follows her silhouette with his gaze and is amazed that he now knows every shape of her so intimately, knows what makes her shiver and sigh and melt, knows her taste—

At the sound of his movement, she turns.

”You’re awake.” She gives him a small, tired smile, and he is hit by the sudden urge to pull her back down into the bed and fuck her senseless.

”Aye. Is the inn awake already?” He nods towards the cup.

”The eldest Heddle girl is up, preparing the morning meal. She didn’t ask.”

_She’s probably done the same for your sister,_ he thinks, remembering the blacksmith boy and his stubborn protectiveness.

”We’ll leave before midday.” She puts the comb down.

”So we’re joining them, then?”

She gives him a long, blank stare.

”Of course I’ll follow her. She’s my sister.”

”That she is.” He can’t tell her the rest of what he’s thinking, but apparently, he doesn’t have to:

”I know. There’s not enough of us.” She sighs. ”But we’ve been at war for years already, stowed away in strange corners of the world. I’d rather die in the North. So North we’ll go, all souls in peril.”

”You have no business dying, little bird.”

”Neither do you. I won’t beg you to join us.”

”You won’t have to.” Do her shoulders relax, just the slightest? Unable to help himself, he sits up and strokes the back of her head, following her neck down to her shoulder. She leans into his touch.

”You should…”

”Yes.” He doesn’t want to. But he rises nonetheless, and gets dressed under her gaze.

Outside her door, sounds coming from the kitchen and the hall tell of the morning drawing late. Sandor stops by an open window on his way down the corridor, and sees that the camp outside is almost completely packed up. Another month on the road, and he won’t be able to touch her. _All I can do is get her home,_ he thinks, and wonders if perhaps he’ll someday come to call it his home as well.

For now, they must get on the road. _All souls in peril_.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all...................  
> I truly hope you liked this chapter. Sorry it's late, it was a pain to write and also there's a lot going on in the world cup that I'm unreasonably emotionally invested in rn.


	26. Sansa X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Ladies Get Shit Done

_Five hundred men. This is what’s become of us_.

Sansa holds in the reins of her chestnut mare, allowing men to ride past her and onto the Kingsroad. She knows there is no hurry for her. She has only once before traveled with such a large retinue, but she remembers how infuriatingly slowly they had moved at times, stopping far too many times on the way for reasons that never seemed to reach her. The horse was provided to her by Podrick, who’d offered her the reins without so much as a word when she entered the yard outside the inn. A handsome young man wearing the sigil of House Dayne had provided her with saddlebags, and she was grateful. He’d introduced himself as ”Ned,” and Sansa knew her heraldry well enough to know that she was speaking to the lord of Starfall.

”Lord Dayne,” she’d said, ”how odd to find you here.”

His eyes had widened, at first, and then he’d told her of how the Lannisters had murdered his liege lord’s brother, and he was lost in the Riverlands for many years.

”Would you not prefer an escort to bring you home to Starfall?” Sansa could not help but ask.

”My lady Stark,” he’d said, and Sansa realized then how she’d missed hearing that. ”I miss my home greatly, but it is because of your father’s great sense of honour that my House still has the greatsword Dawn in our possession. It would be shameful for me to leave his daughters when I can provide aid to their cause.” He’d looked down at his shoes. ”And, besides, my friends are going. I’d rather not be left with strangers.”

_My father killed your uncle,_ Sansa had thought.

”House Stark will not forget this,” she’d said.

Now, looking at the raggedy soldiers riding past, she wonders if House Stark will survive to remember anything at all. She cranes her neck and searches among the riders, and there he is, riding taller than the other men around him. _Sandor_. Sansa’s thoughts go immediately to the pouch of herbs in her saddlebag, a gift from Jeyne Heddle. Sansa left the inn without him, letting Willow dress her hair and hurrying out into the yard alone, as to not arouse suspicion. In hindsight, a lady leaving without her guard might have been rather more suspicious than anything else she could have done.

It is no matter now. He has caught sight of her, is giving her an apprehensive look through the crowd. Sansa smiles; it comes naturally as she sees him, and immediately, he steers Stranger in her direction. This is when she notices the tunic. Silver embroidery runs down his chest, _her_ silver embroidery. _Five hundred men,_ she thinks, _and one wears the livery of House Stark_. 

”Lady Sansa,” he greets her as he rides up beside her. The corner of his mouth twitches, and she can’t help but remember how his mouth felt on her the night before, soft and intent and oh so sweet, and…

”Clegane.” The smile refuses to leave her face. It’s upsetting, really.

”Inspecting your forces?”

She sighs. ”King Torrhen rode against Aegon with thirty thousand men.”

He gives her a long look.

”We’re not riding against a king.”

”Stannis is in the North.” It’s a thought she’s been pushing away, far away, not to think on until it is absolutely necessary. Sansa knows the elder Baratheon’s reputation – she has no delusions of making him their ally easily. ”He has the loyalty of men we will need in our cause.”

”Loyalties turn with the winds these days,” he says.

”I am not so sure that speaks in our favour.”

”Sansa!” The shout comes from behind her, a woman’s voice. _My sister’s voice_. She turns.

”Arya! I thought you were up front.”

”Edric told me you were here.” Arya rides astride her horse today as well, and Sansa is only a little surprised as she comes up close beside her. ”Clegane, call the halt when all soldiers are on the road.”

Sandor immediately looks to Sansa. She gives him a short nod, and he rides off. They both knew it would be like this, she tries to tell herself. None of them could have expected much time together.

”Your man through and through, it would seem,” her sister says.

”He is my shield,” Sansa says, and wonders why she’s never thought of it like that before.

”Even at night?” Arya’s grey eyes – _so much like father’s_ – are piercing, and Sansa’s heart sinks down to her stomach. ”It is an odd shield that needs protect you in your own chambers.”

”Arya—”

”Why _him,_ Sansa? Out of every— I’d expected you with some pretty knight, some young lord, not… not _him_.”

”Pretty knights have tended to make me bleed,” Sansa says slowly, carefully, but sees Arya flinch nonetheless. ”And young lords have only ever wanted my claim. Sandor wants nothing from me that isn’t freely given.” She says it on an impulse, but as the words leave her mouth Sansa knows them to be true.

Arya eyes her thoughtfully. _She was so much quicker to anger, before_. Sansa reaches out to touch her hand, praying that their old animosity will not catch up with them so soon after they found each other again.

”If he hurts you, I _will_ kill him.” With that, she steers her horse to follow the soldiers, inclining her head for Sansa to follow. Sansa’s hand is left hovering in the air, just for a second, before she follows.

The soldiers wait in a double line on the crossroads of the Kingsroad and the High Road as Sansa and Arya ride up. Sandor and Edric Dayne ride along the line, seemingly inspecting the soldiers. Sansa spots five heavy wagons, and, curiously enough, a wheelhouse.

”You made Lord Dayne commander?”

Arya shakes her head. ”I didn’t tell him to do anything.”

_You should have,_ Sansa thinks, but she doesn’t say it. Lord Dayne ought to lead at least part of their forces by providence of his birth alone, but he also follows Sandor like a tail. The two are met up by three riders coming down from the front, one of whom is Lady Brienne. Another is a man with long, greying hair and a beard, clad in faded red over his armor. He looks vaguely familiar, but before Sansa can recognize him, she notices the third man. Thinner than she remembers, yes, and bearded now, but it’s the same long dark hair she remembers from Winterfell’s training yard, the same straight nose and Northern eyes. _Harwin_. She distantly realizes she is staring in an entirely unbefitting manner, but she doesn’t care. Through the dust from the road she believes herself to hear hounds barking from the kennel, and steam rising from the wash-houses, and Robb and Jon racing round the yard, snowflakes melting in their hair, and the smell of burning from the forge…

Harwin holds the reins of his horse, speaking to the others. Suddenly, he looks up, nods at Arya, and then, quickly, his eyes fall on Sansa, on her _hair,_ of all things. His eyes widen, and then he turns them down, in… shame? _How odd_.

This is when riders approach from the High Road.

Dread pools in Sansa’s stomach as she sees them approach, a dozen or so riders, led by two cloaked figures. At once, Sandor has returned to her, hand on the pommel of his sword. Someone else has emerged from the line of soldiers to flank Arya’s other side: Ser Gendry holds a morningstar in his hand, and eyes the newcomers intently. _If it’s Petyr I’m as good as dead,_ Sansa thinks, knowing that all her hopes have been for naught if he finds her. She’ll be spirited back to the Vale, and Arya… Arya would be as well, would be forced into dresses and a political marriage. Sansa’s mind is calculating, weighing; _a Redfort, perhaps, for Arya, or even Sweetrobin, the executioner’s block for Sandor unless I can plead for him, Nestor Royce would listen, but he is in debt to Petyr, but if I agree to wed Petyr, perhaps…_ Movement around her pulls her from her frantic thoughts: there is a ring of soldiers around her and Arya, shielding them from the newcomers. _Five hundred men,_ Sansa remembers. She’s not going anywhere but North. 

”My liege wishes to speak to the lady Sansa Stark,” says one of the riders, a guard, she can see now. They are all of them guards, save for the two hooded figures, but they do not wear the Arryn blue. Instead, Sansa sees that their cloaks bear the white crescent moon of House Royce of the Gates. _Lord Nestor?_ But the closest hooded figure is short, and round, and…

”Randa!”

Sansa urges her horse forward and the soldiers part to let her through. Myranda Royce lowers her hood, as does the other person. It’s an old woman Sansa recognizes.

”Septa Sharra.” Sansa inclines her head, because her mother taught her to respect women of the Faith from an early age.

”So the rumors were true. The Starks are riding North.” A small smile plays over Myranda’s lips.

”What are you doing here? How did you know?”

”I’ll not hold you for long. I just had to make sure.” Myranda’s hair falls loose down her shoulders, like on a young girl. ”Littlefinger is not the only one who likes to know what’s going on. Word reached me of the Stark banner flying at the Crossroads Inn.”

”Randa…” Something like shame settles in Sansa’s chest. ”I’m sorry. I should have… I’m sorry.”

”It is no matter. I understand now what you had to do. The Starks and the Royces have a long history of friendship, and I would like to keep it that way. Mikkel!”

The former squire of Sansa’s husband dismounts behind Myranda, and unties a wooden box and a very familiar cedar chest from his horse’s back. With what looks like a tremendous effort he lifts them up and carries them over to set them down in front of Sansa’s steed.

”A small token of our good will. I will not have it go down in history that the princess of the North had to flee the Vale in the middle of the night to save her life.” Mikkel starts undoing the lid of the box. ”And, besides,” Myranda adds, smirking, ”it doesn’t really fit anyone else.”

The contents of the box gleam in the sunlight: hammered metal expertly shaped and polished to a shine. Sansa had all but forgotten the armour she commissioned for Sandor all those long, tumultuous weeks ago.

”I shall rest easier at night, knowing that the one guarding you is properly equipped.”

”Thank you, Myranda.” Sansa’s throat feels oddly tight, and she cannot think of anything else to say.

”These are uncertain times, even in the Vale. I have a feeling that change is coming quickly, and I worry. You are bravely throwing yourself into the unknown. Tell me, dear Sansa, how does one cope with such turmoil?”

_’Shrewder than her father’,_ comes Petyr’s words from long ago as Sansa regards her friend. They are surrounded by so many, most of them strangers to Sansa.

”We can only do our best to remember what good change can bring,” she says carefully. ”What once bore fruit is rotten come winter, and we are grateful then for the spring floods to wash it all away.”

”Wise words, my friend.” Myranda gives her that big, toothy grin that has fooled so many into thinking she’s harmless. ”And the frost will heave previously unseen rocks to the surface, and we will take care not to break our plows on them. I shall speak to my father and uncle, and see if they will not lend aid to your cause. Nothing would make me happier than to visit your home come spring, dear Sansa.”

Myranda’s words spark a small, dangerous ember of hope in Sansa, and she wants nothing more than to embrace her friend. But they are both mounted, and surrounded by their respective retinues. And so they behave rather more ladylike than they’ve ever been in each other’s company.

”I look forward to showing you Winterfell some day, Randa,” says Sansa. ”And know that I am forever grateful to you for this, whatever your father and uncle decide on.”

This time, when Randa smiles, it is for Sansa alone.

”I will make sure to bring our dear Mya along then, as well. Now, I have kept you for long enough. Winter is closing in on us from every corner, and you must be on your way. And I, of course, must get to Wickenden to visit my _dear_ Lady Waxley.”

As they say their goodbyes, Randa gives Arya a long look, smiling, but says nothing. 

—

The wooden box and the chest are loaded onto one of the carts, and finally, they are on their way. Arya rides beside Sansa, and behind them, Sandor and Ser Gendry share an uncomfortable silence.

”What in all seven hells was that, Sansa?”

”Lady Myranda is a dear friend of mine. I’m sure you’ll like her, too, if you ever meet properly.”

_”Lady Myranda_ speaks in riddles and I don’t like it one bit. How do we know she’s not simply reporting everything back to Littlefinger?”

”I pray we can put Petyr from our minds for a little while,” says Sansa, remembering Randa’s words. _Change, indeed_. ”And are we so well off on allies that we can dismiss the Vale?” She keeps her voice low, so that it is drowned out by the sound of hooves to anyone further away from her than her sister. This is a better privacy than the canvas walls of a tent will be once they put up camp. ”We need a _plan,_ Arya. We need to name commanders, to send scouts ahead. I don’t know what you did to gain the loyalty of these men, but now we need to keep it. Prove that we’re capable. We _need_ more men.”

”We need _Northern_ men. We’re going North.”

—

That night, they make their camp on a field by the Kingsroad. Sandor barks orders by pure habit it seems, and Edric Dayne follows his example. The man clad in red that Sansa now recognizes as Thoros of Myr, the man who unhorsed the handsome Beric Dondarrion during the Hand’s Tourney, is giving out orders as well, leading ten men in rising a large pavilion at the center of camp. _So the commanders have shown themselves_. Once the pavilion is up, he shows Sansa to it, and she finds it furnished with a lit brazier, two bedrolls lined with fur, a pair of fauldstools and a table set with bread and cheese that she does not know where it came from. Just a few days ago, Sansa was trying to sleep sitting up, tied to a tree. She is grateful. The wooden box and the cedar chest from Randa are there, too, as are Sansa’s own bags, and what she can only assume are Arya’s saddlebags.

”Thoros of Myr,” she addresses the man before he has time to leave the pavilion. ”Forgive me, I do not believe we have been formally introduced. I saw you at the Hand’s Tourney in King’s Landing, many years ago. You won the melee.”

The priest peers at her from behind bushy eyebrows.

”I am flattered that you remember, my lady.”

”Forgive me for asking, but why would a Red Priest aid us in our cause? Why are you here, Thoros of Myr?”

”My lady,” he says, reluctantly, ”your father once tasked me to recruit a party to bring Gregor Clegane to justice in the Riverlands. We failed, of course.” He gives a small laugh, but it holds no mirth. ”Now, like many of these men, I serve the realm. The realm needs balance.”

Sansa only looks at him, expecting an explanation.

”And, I suppose,” he continues at last, ”I owe it to your sister, in a way. Perhaps even to you.”

”I am afraid I do not understand.”

”Neither do I, my lady. I pray you’ll sleep well.”

”Find Clegane for me. Have him sent here.” Perhaps her voice is harsher than it needs to be, but the man owes her an explanation and offers none.

”As you wish, my lady.” With that, he leaves the pavilion.

Two men have appeared outside the pavilion’s entrance to stand guard, she notices now. She does not know their names, and part of her feels like she ought to. At the Gates, she knew the names of most household members by heart, and they were not even in her employ. _’Serve the realm’_. Perhaps conviction is a better loyalty than gold – of which they have none – or promises – of which they could make plenty – but it somehow makes her uneasy. She is not certain of the red priest’s motives. What if he decides the realm needs a different House to bring balance? Will his men follow him, or the Starks then? Sansa walks over to open her old cedar chest that Randa brought. The lid creaks slightly as she opens it to reveal— _velvet?_ She pulls at the soft fabric, and recognizes it as her own gown. It’s a deep blue velvet gown she had made for Sweetrobin’s nameday feast last year. It seems a lifetime ago. She reaches further into the chest, and stops herself when she feels delicate lace beneath her fingertips. _Oh, Randa_. What the Lady Royce thinks Sansa will do with her old finery on the road is beyond her, but it warms her heart to know that she took the time to collect it for her. Carefully, she folds her velvet gown and puts it back into the chest. With nothing else to do but wait, she sits down on one of the fauldstools and wonders where her sister is.

It is only a short while before she hears the rustling of the guards parting to let someone through, and she immediately knows whom those footsteps belong to. She looks up.

”Lady Sansa,” he rasps, and she supposes she’ll have to get used to him calling her that now.

”Clegane. I thought you’d want your armour.” She rises, and lifts the lid off of the wooden box for him.

He does not approach it.

”Is this a gift, or a bribe? What does she want?”

Sansa sighs. _I will have you know kindness by heart if it kills me_. ”Sandor,” she says, softly, and doesn’t care that the guards might hear. It’s not so odd for a lady to address her shield informally. ”Myranda is my friend. It is not so much a gift as her bringing us what is yours. We had Malrik make it for _you.”_

He is crouching now, brushing the metal with his rough fingertips. ”She brought your things.” He nods towards the chest.

”Yes. It was very kind of her.” Slowly, she arranges her skirts and crouches down in front of him, with the wooden box between them. She wants nothing rather than to melt into him once more, wants to feel his breath on her skin again. But they are protected by nothing but canvas walls, in the midst of five hundred men, and so all she can do is reach out to cup his bad cheek with her hand. He leans into her touch, and her heart soars.

”It’s good armour,” he says quietly, and she smiles.

_Would that I could wed you,_ she thinks.

”Yes,” she says.

The wind catches the walls of the pavilion violently then, and they are reminded of where they are. Reluctantly, Sansa lets her hand fall to her side, and they both rise. A small voice from behind Sandor almost makes Sansa jump.

”M’lady?”

Sandor turns quickly towards the voice, and Sansa sees now that it belongs to a girl with limp, blonde hair dressed in a simple wool dress.

”Yes?” says Sansa, too shocked by the intrusion to think of anything better.

”Pardons for interrupting, m’lady. I’m Kyra. M’lady Arya sent me to help you. She said you’d need help. M’lady.”

_Help?_ Sansa eyes the girl up and down: underfed, underdressed, and very, very young. She carries a bucket of water in her skinny arms, and it’s steaming slightly. _Is this Arya’s idea of a bedmaid?_

She catches the eye of Sandor and regrets that she only can offer him a small nod as a good-bye. He leaves the pavilion slowly, reluctantly, carrying the box. Kyra still holds the bucket. Sansa sighs, and sets the girl to work.

She had lived at the Crossroads Inn for a year before Arya showed up, she tells Sansa as she combs her hair. Her parents were killed in one of the many raids the Riverlands have suffered these past years, and Jeyne and Willow Heddle took her in, along with many other orphans. She’d volunteered to go North along with some of them, no doubt hoping to build a new life. _And what if we can only lead you to death, sweetling?_ She can feel small, cold fingers work through her tresses and wishes she could find the girl a proper cloak. Sansa has to reach back to still Kyra’s hands sometimes when she tries to tug too hard at her hair. When she’s done, Sansa sends her away with Maddy’s old dress and some bread. The dress will be too big, but good enough to wear beneath her wool one. Perhaps Sansa can hem it some other night, when she is not exhausted.

It is far later when she hears Arya enter the tent and crawl into her bedroll. Sansa keeps her eyes closed and decides not to ask tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooops this one's dialogue heavy. Not my strongest way of exposition, but I hope you liked it. Not a lot of SanSan action, but I promise much more in Sandor's next chapter! Thank you for reading!
> 
> Also! Also! Also!  
>  I made an art!
> 
> [Here's](https://cornix-upon-a-time.tumblr.com/post/175656295912/when-she-crawled-out-of-bed-long-moments-later) a lil child Sansa having possibly the worst first period imaginable. I'll try and make an adult version of her soon, so you all can see my hc for her in this fic!
> 
> (EDIT: [here it is!](https://cornix-upon-a-time.tumblr.com/post/175895270027/q-u-e-e-n-i-n-t-h-e-n-o-r-t-h) )


	27. Sandor X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Scary Stories Are Told At Camp

Soldier encampments are not places where one sleeps undisturbed. Even when there’s been no battle yet, when there are no screams from the tents of barber surgeons, there is the sort of rowdy noise that seems inevitable when you’re part of it, and entirely unnecessary when you’re not.

This night, Sandor belongs firmly in the latter category. He has no interest in drink or company, unless it’s the company of _her_. He sits down far from the fire pit at the centre of camp to eat his evening meal. The former Brotherhood Without Banners had stocked up on winter wheat and dried meat for the long cold, and now, it will feed the Stark forces on their way North. _And when we get there, well_ … Sandor doesn’t know why he worries about that now. He never used to. Food and shelter was provided by his liege lord, and he was so far below as to never even see _how_ it all happened. Now, however, his liege is Sansa, and vow or no vow, he is bound to protect her.

The red fool Thoros makes sure he has a tent of his own. Had Sandor been a different man, he might have thought it kindness. But as it is, he remembers the gold from the Hand’s tourney, and how all he ever got back from the Brotherhood was a worthless piece of writing. _Let him keep that bad conscience,_ he thinks, alone in the dark. Someone stumbles over one of the taut ropes holding the corners of his tent up, and the entire thing lurches to one side before the person outside untangles himself under a string of curses, and the tent rights itself again.

An uneasy quiet, or as close to quiet as soldier camps get, falls reluctantly as the night deepens. It is because of this quiet that it is all the more alarming when the scream comes. By memory, and by the thunder it causes in his chest, he knows it:

It is, of course, _her_ scream.

Sandor throws the furs off of himself and rushes outside, into the biting night-cold wearing only his breeches. Others have been roused, too, and are rushing towards the royal pavilion. In the corner of his eye Sandor registers the blacksmith-knight and Dayne hurrying as well. At the entrance of the pavilion, everything happens in a blurred haste. As Sandor reaches it, the two guards that were stationed there come almost running out of the pavilion, sees the score-and-some men (and Brienne) who are approaching, seem to suddenly remember their mission, and cross their spears across the entrance all while they regain their bearings.

”All is under control,” says one, his voice tinted with stress. ”Go back to your tents.”

_Bugger that_. Sandor pushes forward, until he is right up by them, and unceremoniously pushes their spears aside.

”Ser, you cannot—” one of them begins, but he is already inside.

She is the first thing he notices inside. Sansa is sitting in her bedroll, her hair in a long braid down he shoulder. Her blue eyes are wide and wild, darting everywhere, and her face is as white as her linen nightgown. 

”Get _out!”_ It’s the she-wolf, sitting crouched by her sister, glaring daggers up at him.

”San—” his voice comes unsteady.

”I said, get _out!”_ She has an actual dagger pointed at him, too, but she isn’t getting up. Her other arm is firmly around Sansa, whose shoulders are visibly shaking. ”Sandor Clegane, I swear by every godsdamned—” she lowers the knife, just a bit, and hastily turns back to Sansa. ”Shhhh, Sansa, it’s nothing,” she hums, with a voice much softer than he’d have thought she could manage. _Get out,_ the she-wolf mouthes silently to him, this time with pleading in her eyes.

Sandor wants to push her away. It would be easy; she is already distracted. Even with his bad leg he could reach the little bird in the blink of an eye. But Sansa’s eyes find his, just for a moment, and he lets out a deep sigh. _This is not your domain, dog_.

”I’ll be back on the morrow,” he says, and leaves.

He nods to the guards as he exits. They only glare. Most men have gone back to their tents, it seems, save for two; Sandor turns to Gendry and Dayne.

”Don’t go in there if you value your lives,” he says. ”The she-wolf’s got it sorted.”

”Don’t—” Gendry begins, but stops himself.

Sandor goes straight back to his tent.

—

He wakes at the break of dawn. A fine layer of frost covers the entire camp as he gets outside, even the ropes of his tent have thin lines of crystal frost running along them. Sandor has donned his mail and Stark tunic again, saving the armour for combat. At the fire pit, the morning meal is served out by some of the children he remembers from the inn. A dozen or so of them decided to follow them on their journey North, traveling in the old wheelhouse left at the inn by some forgotten retinue. He allows himself a piece of bread on foot before he heads to the royal pavilion. New guards have been stationed at the entrance, for which he is grateful; they let him inside with only a quick glance. 

The she-wolf is tying her little sword to her belt as he enters. Her hair has been half tied up in braids, and she looks rather more highborn than he’s ever seen her before. Sansa is seated on a fauldstool, with the girl – Kyra – behind her, working on her hair. The little bird looks tense, has a hand half-raised, ready to stop the girl at any moment. She wears a green wool riding dress he remembers from the Vale, embroidered with red roses and gold leaves.

”Clegane,” she says, smiling.

”Lady Sansa,” he says, inclining his head. And, because of last night, he turns to the sister. ”Lady Arya.”

The she-wolf says nothing, but the clenching of her jaw is reward enough. Sansa clears her throat.

”I am sorry about last night, Clegane. It was nothing but a night terror.”

The she-wolf shifts her weight from one foot to the other, saying nothing but letting her eyes dart between Sandor and Sansa. Sandor only nods, feeling as though there is something they are both keeping from him. _You are missing something, dog._ Slowly, reluctantly, Arya leaves the tent. The Kyra girl has not stopped with her ministrations.

”Sweetling, don’t— Gently, there.” Sansa grimaces in such an unladylike manner that Sandor cannot help but chuckle. His thoughts are brought back to the time when he was Cersei Lannister’s sworn shield, and how he’d watched her dismiss bedmaid after bedmaid until the castellan had to reassign maids from other ladies. She would have had Kyra thrown in a black cell for tugging at her hair like that.

His thoughts are interrupted by a sound from the entrance, and he turns to see another girl standing there. She is of the same age as Kyra, he guesses, but taller, lacking the tell-tale signs of malnourishment as a child. She immediately curtsies to Sansa, lowering her head and holding up her skirts like he remembers seeing Princess Myrcella practicing long ago.

”Is this the girl you told me about, Kyra?” Sansa asks.

”Yes, m’lady, this is my friend Meyra.”

Sansa gives the girl a warm smile. ”Welcome, sweetling.”

”Thank you, my— your Highness.”

Sandor is taken aback by both the girl’s formality and proper enunciation. _Castle-raised,_ he thinks, but her much-mended dress and dirty brown hair tell a different story.

”I am very sorry to hear of the loss of your family. Ser Raymun showed us great hospitality when we travelled south from Winterfell.”

_Castle Darry,_ Sandor suddenly remembers, and he also remembers what happened there. But before he can delve into that particular memory, his lady addresses him:

”Sandor, this is young Lady Meyra Darry.”

”House Darry is gone,” he says, by pure instinct. 

”I’m still here,” says the girl immediately, angrily, and he is reminded of the she-wolf all those years ago, dirty and hungry and furious. ”Ser,” she adds, as an afterthought, and he’s been around highborn people enough to know that the pause is deliberate. 

”I’m no ser.”

”Lady Meyra, this is my shield, Sandor Clegane.”

The girl tilts her head, shamelessly studying his scars. ”You’re the Hound,” she says, matter-of-factly.

”You will refer to him as ’Clegane’, Meyra.” There is a hint of a hard edge to the little bird’s voice.

”If it please your Highness.” She lowers her head. Her eyes dart to Sansa’s hair. ”Perhaps— I could— ” She flexes her fingers at her side.

”Perhaps you could,” says Sansa, brightening a little. ”Kyra, would you fetch some more hot water?”

Kyra looks rather relieved as she entrusts the care of the little bird’s hair to Meyra Darry and exits the pavilion.

”My sister and I will be at Thoros of Myr’s pavilion this morning,” Sansa tells the remaining girl. ”You and Kyra may use that time to wash properly.”

”You Highness is very kind, but we have no place for privacy. We share the wheelhouse with ten others.”

”This pavilion will be empty. And you may call me Sansa.”

The girl’s eyes widen. ”But— Your Highness is a princess.”

”Then consider it an order,” the little bird says lightly.

”I— As you wish,” the girl pauses, thinking, ” _Lady_ Sansa.”

—

Thoros of Myr, Sansa, and the she-wolf are all seated around a low table with plenty more seats available, but Gendry and Brienne remain standing, and so Sandor moves to stand behind his lady.The Dayne boy hesitates, his eyes darting from an empty fauldstool to Sandor, and back again.

”Have a seat, Ned,” says Thoros. ”Never mind those stubborn fools.”

Slowly, Dayne sits down, leaving two empty seats between him and Sansa. At that moment, Podrick Payne hurries into the pavilion. The squire casts one glance around the space and goes to pull out a fauldstool for the Tarth woman, and stands behind it expectantly until she acquiesces.

Finally, their first war council may begin.

Sansa is mostly quiet, and that surprises him. She merely throws in a couple of helpful practical suggestions concerning the running of their retinue and encampments. She says nothing as they name scouts and discuss guard schedules. Gendry, too, remains silent, so perhaps he is only there as a guard, after all. Sandor falls easily into this: the soldier in him is finally allowed into the foreground of his consciousness once more. This isn’t political intrigue at court, or in the Vale, it isn’t the confusing onslaught of thoughts and emotion that follows him everywhere these days, growing all the more insistent in her presence. This is commanding and killing, clear orders and clear goals. Though he has never been entrusted in tactical counsel before, Sandor has stood guard at those meetings, has commanded men in battle.

At some point, Sansa orders him to sit down, so that she doesn’t have to crane her neck every time he speaks.

Finally, they reach the subject of feeding their men.

”The Lannisters still hold the Riverlands. I have no qualms about hunting on their stolen land,” says the she-wolf.

”A hunting party of ten should suffice for now,” says Thoros. ”The terrain is tricky, and more men is slower. We want them to catch up with us.”

”You’ll find no better bowman than Anguy.” Dayne finally speaks up. ”Have him collect a party and set out.”

”Very well,” says the red priest. ”There is boar in the eastern hills even now.”

”Not the hills!”

They all fall silent and turn to stare at the little bird, who has brought a pale hand up to cover her mouth.

”There’s…” She collects herself, as he has seen her do so many times before, drawing herself inwards all while straightening her frame. ”There are wolves in the hills. It’s not safe.”

”Wolves? There hasn’t been wolves in these parts for _years,_ my lady.”

”Things change, Thoros of Myr,” she says. ”Don’t send the party east.”

Thoros begins to object once more, but is interrupted by the sister:

”I would listen to Sansa, Thoros. I have a feeling she knows what she is talking about.”

For the second time that morning, Sandor has the distinct feeling that he is missing something important.

—

Their departure is not quite as slow as yesterday’s was, but he is stuck waiting all the same. Stranger is restless beneath him, and even the mare the little bird rides seems to have problem remaining still. She holds her reins tight, and her horse close by his side. Casting a glance around, he notes that an unease seems to have befallen many of the retinue’s horses. Ears turn quickly in every direction, and hooves scrape at the ground nervously.

”Wolves, eh?”

Sansa follows his gaze and seems to understand his meaning. ”I don’t think they will harm us,” she says, and he wants to but doesn’t ask how in all seven hells she can know that, and why she thinks there are wolves out there to begin with, and…

”You seemed very frightened, last night.”

”I am sorry to have woken you.”

He sighs, annoyed with her for keeping him at a distance, and even more so with himself for wanting her to let him close. The appearance of the Darry girl has only worked to remind him even more of his precarious position. With a young lady-in-waiting, dirty as she may be, doing Sansa’s hair and calling her _’your Highness’,_ keeping up a façade even to himself has become nigh on impossible. _She was always meant to outgrow your low-born embrace, dog_. _Wasn’t even yours to hold to begin with_. _A princess and a dog, there’s something for the fool singers_. She belongs with a court around her, belongs with some high lord by her side and perfect highborn children around their legs.

He must have let his downtrodden thoughts shine through, because she leans over and gives his hand a quick squeeze, like a secret gift between them, and then she is straight-backed again, regarding her forces.

With that warmth lingering on his hand, the high lord beside her in his mind turns taller, his hair longer, his face a ruin, and it is shame alone that makes him try to erase it from his mind. But it’s there, now, and there’s no taking it back. And what would marriage change? He’d still be too lowborn, would still only ever be good for protecting her. They’d share a bed, only it wouldn’t be a secret. Yes, how different would it be? Perhaps, it wouldn’t make much of a difference at all. And if that’s true, then he should have no trouble keeping this – _call it what it is, dog_ – affair, up. Indeed, what is marriage to an old dog? A vow spoken to absent gods, nothing more. _Nothing more,_ he repeats to himself, and this time, he almost believes it.

—

It is a bleak, cloudy day in the Riverlands. Sandor rides at the back of the retinue, and _she_ is constantly changing position, sometimes at his side, then up front with her sister. Arya wears a strangely familiar cloak, he noticed before they set out, heavy wool with fur trimming. He studied it for several long moments before he realized why it’s familiar; he’s felt that wool against him for weeks in the saddle. The little bird wears a new cloak, heavy velvet with a hood but no fur. Less practical, but all the more befitting her station. He fleetingly wonders if she had first attempted to give her sister _that_ cloak, and knows immediately what reaction the she-wolf would have had to that. Sansa spends a long while riding next to the old wheelhouse, speaking to the orphans through the windows. And then comes Dayne. The young lord rides up beside her as she holds in the reins of her horse by the side of the road, and they ride together for the rest of the day. Sandor tries but cannot stop himself from craning his neck to catch a glimpse of them, several rows of riders ahead. They are talking, sometimes laughing, and in his mind, the high lord at her side is shorter once more, his hair lighter, with pretty purple eyes and his cloak is fastened by a shining star-shaped brooch.

_The heir of Starfall,_ he thinks, _not a king, but as good a match as any_. But then she turns around in her high sidesaddle, catches Sandor’s eye, and gives him a warm smile, locks of red hair flying around her in the cold breeze. _The heir of Clegane Hall,_ he thinks. _A shit match, but I wouldn’t whisk her away from her home_.

—

They make their camp before dark. The road ahead is poorly maintained, and they cannot be sure to find a better spot before night. A bit to the west of the Kingsroad _(Not east,_ the little bird had insisted) they find a lake, as clear and dead as crystal. A meadow stretches along the southern edge of it, and tents start going up.

Sandor joins the Stark sisters, Dayne, Tarth, Payne, and Gendry in Thoros’ pavilion, open on one side to the water, for their evening meal.

”How strange,” Sansa remarks when a soldier down the camp throws a rock into the water. ”Clear all the way down to the bottom, and not a fish to be seen.”

”Tom o’ Sevens knew a song about this lake,” says Dayne, piquing the interest of those around the table.

”Tom would know a song about a hole in the road if you wanted him to,” mutters Thoros, but Dayne is not discouraged.

”I have no voice for singing,” says the young lord that looks like he belongs _in_ a song more than anything, ”but I do remember some of it. It’s called the Lake of Children.”

”Children?” Brienne of Tarth puts down her goblet uneasily.

”During the Invasion, the Andals emptied the Riverlands of the children of the forest, slaying them mercilessly, and threw their heads into this lake. They thought weirwood trees would grow from their bodies otherwise. But the lake had been blessed by the children thousands of years before, and when it was sullied, it died. Fish floated up to the surface, and nothing would grow on the bottom. It became as clear as glass, and at the bottom, the heads would not rot. For a hundred summers the eyes of the children stared up into the sky, before…” Dayne looks down at the table. ”I am afraid I don’t remember the rest.”

Silence falls around the table.

”Nonsense,” says Arya at last. ”The children were long gone from the Riverlands when the Andals came.”

The little bird gives her sister a surprised look, but says nothing.

When their meal is done, she speaks.

”I think I shall have a walk before dark.”

”Take Donnal with you,” says her sister, gesturing to one of the guards posted outside the tent.

”I’d rather not,” she replies. ”I’ll bring my shield before I bring a stranger.”

”Gage, then.”

Sansa pretends not to have heard, and rises from her fauldstool. ”Clegane?”

”My lady.” Sandor is already getting to his feet. 

They walk along the edge of camp in silence, just a step’s width from the clear water. She has her cloak around her, and it rustles against the brittle yellow grass on the ground. Beyond the sprawl of tents they climb a low hill, and she stops at the top, looking out over the lake.

The clouds have cleared a little, allowing threads of light to reach down to the surface of the lake, and from there, undisturbed all the way to the bottom. It doesn’t smell, that’s what hits him first. Lakes should have that faint sweet smell, more a suggestion than a scent, really. Sansa tilts her head beside him, focusing intently on something. He looks, too, and is taken aback, just for a second, before he sees the truth of it. What first looks like a hundred pale, monstrous arms reaching up towards the surface is in fact nothing but the long, bare branches of a tree. It must have blown into the lake during a storm, and down there it lies, covered in nothing but a fine layer of grey mud.

”Will it lie there a hundred summers, do you think?” A half-smile plays over her features as she looks down at the tree.

”I hope not,” says Sandor, and looks away, unsettled by the sight. If he stuck his hand in the lake, would it take on the same dead, blue-gray hue? He imagines the tree coming to life as he breaks the surface, sees himself being dragged down into the depths by long, pale branches, to rest forever at the vast waste of the bottom. _Lake of the Monster,_ they would rename it, seeing his ruin of a face stare with empty eyes up at the sky. A shiver runs through him, and he takes a few steps back.

She gives him a surprised look.

”Does it make you uneasy?” she asks, incredulous.

”Don’t like it, that’s for sure.”

”I think it’s beautiful,” she says, and gazes down the depth one last time before she walks back from the edge to join him. ”But it makes me a little sad, as well. Though I can’t say why.”

Sandor is not surprised that she would find beauty in such a strange sight. This is the woman who, when she was nothing more than a starry-eyed slip of a girl, had looked at his monstrous face, put her hand on his shoulder, and offered him sympathy. He follows her along the hill, down the other side. She stops under a birch tree and puts her hand on its ancient trunk.

”I don’t want to fight,” she says, and her voice is very small. ”I don’t want to send men into battle. I don’t want to send _you_ into battle.” She looks up at him, and her eyes glitter in the swiftly falling darkness. ”You must think me weak.”

”I don’t think you’re weak,” he says, and means it. Her cheeks are red from the cold.

”Sandor,” she says, and now her voice is low and dangerously soft, and it beckons him closer. Before he even knows he is moving he’s there, putting his arms around her shoulders. Her hands grasp at the front of his tunic, and she rest her forehead against his chest. He can feel her shoulders shake with a sob she is too proud to allow a sound from. She stills, takes a deep breath, and then her hands are behind his neck. He lowers himself into a slow, gentle kiss, her mouth hot on his. 

”Sansa,” he says when her lips leave his, though he has nothing more to say.

All the same, she smiles. ”I like it when you say it like that.”

”Like what, girl?”

”Like a…” She trails off, traces the embroidery on his tunic with her fingers. ”Like it’s something important. Like I’m no princess, no lady, just… Important.”

And she is, right in this moment: not highborn, not a leader, but so, so important. The red in her cheeks has deepened, and her hair falls in a soft cascade around her face. He puts his hand on her cheek, and it looks big and rough against her, but she doesn't seem to mind. Just as he is about to reply – or kiss her again, he still isn’t clear on the details – a memory materializes around them. Through a clearing between the trees they see it, far to the south: a dome of green light in the sky. 

”Is that…”

”Aye,” he says, because there is no mistaking it after how it’s seared into his memory. ”Wildfire.”

”We should get back.”

”Aye.”

They hurry back to camp, where soldiers have gathered outside their tents to watch this new terror in the sky.

”Sansa!” It’s the sister, running up to them, through soldiers parting to give way. ”Have you seen?”

”It’s rather difficult not to, Arya,” says Sansa, and Sandor thinks how if he’d ever spoken to his brother like that, it wouldn’t just be half his face that’s ruined.

”Thoros says it’s _wildfire_. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

”Yes,” his little bird says distantly, ”something like it.”

—

The fire burns through the night, and well into morning. Back on the Kingsroad again, Sandor finds himself turning back frequently, anxious for the green to die out at last. _It won’t spread here,_ he keeps telling himself. _Don't be foolish_. By midday it is completely gone. But what remains is a sense of dread in the air, a threat: someone, somewhere, has acquired a dangerous amount of wildfire, and there’s no telling whether that was all of it, or if there’s a cart full of the stuff headed in their direction, as well. _Cowards, cowards, cowards,_ a mantra in his head runs, _cowards, cowards, why is it always fire?_

Something white flickers past him, and at first he believes it to be ash, remembering that first morning after he fled King’s Landing, and ash danced through the air, seeming to follow him wherever he went. But another lands on his hand, and melts: snow.

When they make camp that night, a fine layer of powder snow covers the ground.

—

A week on the road, and silence from the south. No couriers pass their retinue, and that is even more worrisome. When they reach the southernmost point of the Neck, practically still the Riverlands, they make their camp by a run-down inn. What news the innkeep has are old, but valuable to them: dragons have arrived in King’s Landing. A queen, it is said, Daenerys Targaryen, has claimed the Iron Throne. 

”They said our brother turned into a wolf,” says Sansa that evening, as they are gathered around a table at the inn. ”I’m sure there are no dragons.”

Thoros says nothing for once, and that strikes Sandor as odd.

Rumour has spread by now of the Stark sisters’ campaign to reclaim their home. The innkeep knew that much, at least. Not much is known of Arya, and there’s nothing strange about that; she’s spent the last few years in Essos. But Sansa. _Sansa_. Much was said about her already, after her time at court and sudden disappearance. It is not strange, either, that she has been painted as the leader.

The sisters get a room each at the inn; the finest ones, with featherbeds. The remaining ones are fought over by the rest. Thoros is happy with his pavilion, and Tarth and Payne sleep in the stable. Sandor doesn't even try. While soldiers fill the hall with song, having some much-needed ale, he knocks on her door, and is let in immediately.

This time, there is such urgency in their need that they do not even make it to the bed. Too many days have passed without so much as a brush of a hand against a cheek. The wall is cold, but she does not complain as she is lifted up against it. Clothing is removed, or pushed aside, as needs be, no time is left for finesse. Skin thrumming, hair tangled, she is wrapped around him, and finally, he carries her to the bed. Still clinging to him she strokes his hair, desperate and tender all at once. _Not the hands of a killer,_ he thinks, he _knows,_ whatever the rumours say. If only they knew whom she shared her bed with these days, what would they say? She is already loved and hated and even feared, far and wide. Stories of how she can turn into a winged wolf and how her kisses are poison have spread through the realm. _Winterfell’s daughter,_ they say. _The Winged Wolf, Lady Kingslayer, Princess of Ice,_ they name her. _Sansa, Sansa, Sansa,_ he whispers into her hair. 

”Hold me,” she says, this terror from the North. He does, and so they sleep: fiercely close, wrapped in warmth and for just one night, shielded from the vast and terrible world.

Days later, when they’ve travelled on, the innkeep will tell couriers and merchants how he was visited by none other than the already queen-like Winged Wolf and her sister, quiet and quick as a shadow, the Silent Wolf.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (yes, I know Jojen calls Bran the winged wolf in the books but honestly it fits much better with Sansa. there's a myth about it and everything!)


	28. Father

Winter has not yet reached the Water Gardens, though pale yellow leaves are ever twirling through the air. Doran holds the letter in both hands, and does not know whether he should weep, laugh, or howl with grief and rage at the world. _And so comes the final downfall of Tywin Lannister’s legacy_. His hands shake. _Revenge is sweet, that’s what they say._ Bile rises in his throat.

”All of it, Hotah. It’s all gone.”

”Are you certain?”

”Nym wouldn’t lie about this.”

”The princess…?”

_”’Confusion’,_ she writes. As with the boy-king. Could have been any blade. But the Dowager Queen had time to send the order, before Ser Jaime…” He cannot continue. He can barely _think_. No word of the Targaryen queen, or of the impostor. Arianne is still at Sunspear, at least.

For once, his body is silent. There is no pain. 

”Where is Lady Nym?”

”She does not say. She intercepted Cersei and her party at the end of their escape route. Far enough from the destruction, at least.”

”And Lady Tyene…?”

”No word.” In Doran’s chest is a twisted tangle, like the branches of the old orange trees around him. Darkness is falling. It comes so early, these days. There are no children at play.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	29. Sansa XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Prejudice Is Met With Pride

In her dreams, she soars. Over hills and rivers and fields, she dances on the winds, sees the Kingsroad stretch along the landscape, like a piece of thread left there by the giants. Looking down, there’s their encampment, looking far more orderly from above than one would have guessed walking between rows and rows of mismatched tents and pavilions. And to the east of the camp she sees them: running, always running between the trees, quick shadows gone far astray from one of Old Nan’s tales. That first night, she fell. One moment she was high in the air, and the next, she was plunging towards the unforgiving ground. She didn’t stop there: she fell down beneath, into a cold burrow. There, she hid. She was alone, her siblings all dead from the harshness of the season. Mother came, at last, carrying death in her cruel teeth, fur matted with blood. Mother was bigger than the others, the leader, and she was important. She had a name. None of the others did. 

Sansa had woken shaking, screaming, when Mother had closed her huge jaws around the back of her neck to drag her out into the cold.

That was the first night.

Since then, she has soared two nights without falling. The wolves beneath have kept on their steady path north, and she doesn’t know whether she should find comfort in that or not. This night, sleeping a heavy sated sleep in a featherbed, enveloped in Sandor’s arms, she is already on the ground. She is huddled beneath a tree, paws melting the icy frost around them. Mother is restless. And when Mother is restless, the entire pack is. There is someone coming, someone important, though not as important as Mother.

She smells it before she sees it: blood, iron, fur. There are other things, as well, but she doesn’t know them. The entire pack is waiting. It comes through the trees: two-legged, skin-stealer, flat-toothed. Mother rises to it happily, greets it like someone treasured. It falls, nuzzles into Mother’s fur. Mother nuzzles it back, and that angers her. A whine escapes her throat, needy and weak; it always works. Mother looks back at her, and _it_ does too…

_”Arya!”_

Sansa’s chest is heaving, and she’s gripping the furs around her, sitting up in the featherbed. A heavy hand reaches up to her shoulder, gives a gentle tug.

”Naught but a dream, little bird. Sleep.” Sandor’s voice is muddled with sleep, and she pushes his hand off of her shoulder.

”No. I must go.” She rises swiftly, too swiftly, and has to steady herself against the wall as a dizziness falls over her. Fumbling against sleep and darkness, she finds the linen robe she brought from the Crossroads Inn and hastily wraps it around herself.

The cold is biting outside, she hurries as quickly as she is able around the old inn, and into the woods beyond. Frost covers the ground, and her bare feet are already too cold to melt it. She is losing sensation in them fast, and soon, they are just wayward lumps of flesh and bone, stumbling over rocks and feeling nothing but a stabbing pain from the cold.

As she stumbles on, it dawns on Sansa that she has never been alone in the woods like this before. In King’s Landing, she’d sneak out to the godswood in the evenings, but that was hardly the same. Her lord father had once brought her along out into Winterfell’s godswood in the night, to listen to the heart tree. Robb and Arya had been there, too, and her half-brother Jon. Bran had been too small, and Rickon was nothing but a bump on Lady Catelyn’s belly. There had been frost then too, but she had worn sealskin boots lined with white fur. The boots had been a gift from the Wull that her lord father had brought back from his latest tour of the keeps of the mountain clans. _Those boots made me feel more a princess than my brother’s crown ever did,_ she thinks. When she’d outgrown them, she’d cried and cried as Arya gleefully tried them on.

”Arya,” she whisper-shouts, into the night, ”Arya?”

She can hear sounds coming from the inn behind her, but pays no heed. She hears something up ahead, too, but it’s far too dark to see. _I should have brought a lantern. A candle, anything_. But then, she knows, her vision would be limited to that narrow flicker of light, and the pale light from the moon would lend her no aid.

”Arya?” A twig breaks up ahead. Something is hurrying.

”Sansa? Sansa!” Her sister comes running through the woods, eyes wide.

”What are you _doing?_ Do you know how dangerous—”

”Gods, Sansa, where are your shoes?”

_”Wolves!_ Wolves, Arya! You couldn’t have known they’d— Come back to the inn, you’ll catch your _death_ in this cold.”

_”I’m_ not the one who’s _barefoot,_ and—” Arya stops mid-sentence, and then there’s the _shink_ and pale glimmer of steel. She holds her sword in front of her, focused on something behind Sansa. ”Who’s there?”

”Bloody suicidal, both of you,” comes a familiar rasp, and before Sansa knows it, she is wrapped in a warm cloak and swooped up into the arms of Sandor Clegane. ”Left your godsdamned shoes and cloak.”

Sansa is about to demand she be put down, but she is just realizing how cold it was without the cloak, and how pain shoots up from the soles of her feet. It is not a bad place to be, all things considered.

”Thank you, Sandor,” she says.

”Hey!” Sansa hears her sister’s voice as Sandor walks back towards the inn. Quick footsteps crush crystal frost, and then she’s beside them, almost running to keep up with Sandor’s long strides. ”Why’re you out here to begin with?”

”I saw you,” Sansa tells her, wishing she wasn’t being carried. It’s rather difficult to maintain a conversation with one’s head moving with the steps of another person.

”Not you,” says Arya. ”Clegane.”

”Arya…”

”I’m where I’m needed,” he says as he rounds the corner of the inn.

”M’lady?” It’s Ser Gendry, standing by the door of the inn, holding up a lantern.

”Seven, Gendry, I’ve told you not to call me that.”

Sandor has apparently chosen not to acknowledge the fact that Gendry has as little reason to be out here as he has, and simply walks right past him, angling through the door so that Sansa’s feet don’t hit the doorframe. Sansa, feeling that the situation calls for _something,_ manages a half-hearted wave as they pass by, sticking her hand out of the warm cloak and then immediately pulling it back in, harshly reminded of the night’s cold.

”You’re not going outside alone in the night again dressed like that,” he mutters as he carries her up the stairs and back into her room.

”I’m a princess,” Sansa says indignantly, though the meaning is rather lost as she is carried in his arms, ”you can’t tell me what to do.”

”If it means keeping you whole I’ll gladly commit treason. Believe that.” He sets her down, not ungently, on the bed, and she realizes her teeth are clattering. ”What in all seven hells brought you out there?”

”A-Arya,” she clatters, ”wolves.”

He merely stares down at her from where he stands beside the bed. Desiring a more equal position, she attempts to stand up, but fails miserably, and sinks down back into the bed. 

”The wolves are coming North with us. They’re led by Mo— Nymeria. Arya’s direwolf.”

There’s a glint of something — _fear?_ — in his eyes, and she softens her tone, reaches out a hand to him. ”Come to bed, Sandor. Warm me up.”

She feels very vulnerable in the moment it takes for him to decide to let it go and climb back into bed with her. With cold hands, she pulls at his tunic, its fastenings already loose from his haste to get outside earlier. He chuckles softly as he undresses, and pulls the covers over her before he removes her robe. A kiss on her forehead, a wicked grin, and he is gone under the covers. Broad, warm hands trace her body all the way down to her numb feet, where she can tell only by the pressure that he is rubbing. Soon, a sharp pain spreads from them as the blood returns, and she cannot stop the gasp that follows. A deep rumble vibrates from his chest as he kisses her ankles, soothing and warming all at once. She tentatively moves her toes as his mouth trails up her leg, spreading fire through her veins. She reaches down as he moves up her thighs, strokes his hair as she feels her toes curl up all by themselves. Leaning into blissful ignorance of the world outside, Sansa lies back and melts into the sensation.

—

Morning finds her alone in her chamber. _It’s as it should be,_ she tells herself. But the bed feels cold and far too big without him, and so she quickly gets out of it before she can dwell on that. Part of her wants to finally let go of politics and not let him sneak around like a thief in the night, but she knows better. The prospect of marrying into House Stark will be an important incentive for other houses to join their cause. _I suppose I shall be wed again before spring_. The thought spreads an old, familiar chill in her chest. _I’ve endured two husbands already. A third should be no match_. But even so, that thought offers no comfort. And Arya — Arya is not one to endure. She’ll fight and kick and scream. But there is a small glimmer of hope: one of them needs to carry on the Stark name. One may marry as she pleases. By birthright it should be Sansa. And yet… _Could I force an unhappy marriage on my sister, after living through two myself?_ Perhaps, after all they’ve been through, they should salvage what they can. _Let her remain free. I already know a tether by heart_. And Sandor… Sandor has land to inherit. A keep. _He_ could marry if he wanted to. The thought strikes her as odd enough that her hands freeze with her comb halfway through a lock of hair. When all this turmoil has burnt itself out, he could lead a comfortable life if he wanted to. Scars mean little when there is land involved. Surely, he could find someone to wed. _A Lady Clegane_ …

It is when her door opens and Kyra and Meyra walk in that she realizes there are inexplicable tears on her cheeks. Swiftly, she reaches to wipe them away, but she is too late.

”Is something the matter, lady Sansa?” Meyra gives her a concerned look.

”Oh, no, it’s nothing.” She attempts a smile. ”You two look well-rested.” Yesterday, Sansa made sure to arrange for them to share a room at the inn.

”Yes, thank you, m’lady.” Kyra pours new water in her washbasin.

Meyra pulls up a dress of heavy red diamond twill wool from the cedar chest. ”It’s rather cold outside, but this one looks warm enough.”

”Yes,” Sansa says, looking out as Kyra opens the shutters. ”We’re in the North now.”

—

_The North_. The cold air bites into her cheeks like tiny needles, but it doesn’t bother her yet.

”Feels good to be back, does it not?” Arya rides up beside her, pink-cheeked and smiling.

”It does.” Even the marches of the Neck are getting covered in a fine powder layer of snow. By the side of the road, both grass and late-blooming flowers have been caught by surprise by the frost. They are seemingly encapsulated in ice crystals, perfectly preserved yet more frail than ever. 

”You don’t look too pleased.”

”I am. I just…” Sansa’s voice falters, but her sister’s face shines with a self-assured joy that gives her leave to break, just a little. ”When we get there, Winterfell, it won’t be…”

”We’ll rebuild,” says Arya, as sure as anything. ”I imagine the glass gardens will be a priority, if we are to survive the winter.”

_Yes, but who will rebuild? How will we buy glass?_ The questions whirl around in Sansa’s head, and she cannot bring herself to say them out loud.

”It looks good on you,” she says instead. ”The cloak.”

Arya does not thank her for the compliment, but she ducks her head so that it is hidden under the fur-trimmed hood. Sansa smiles.

—

”I hear those crannogmen have spies along the causeway all the way up to Moat Cailin.” Thoros empties his cup and looks around the table in his pavilion. Night falls early here, and they dare not ride on through the marches in the dark. Finding enough dry land for them to set up camp was difficult enough.

”Good,” says Arya. ”Then they can’t miss us.”

”My lady?” Brienne furrows her brow.

”We need the Reeds,” explains Sansa. ”But _they_ must find _us_. The Watch is a… complicated place to find.”

Sandor shifts in his seat beside her. He does not enjoy the Neck, that much is clear. She can’t say that she much enjoys it either, save for the fact that it means she is closing in on home. _But what if it’s not the Neck? What if it’s the North he doesn’t like?_ When the conversation had turned to the greenseers earlier, she’d thought he would leave the pavilion altogether.

”Are you telling me we can avoid Moat Cailin?” Thoros stares wide-eyed at Arya, and Sansa turns her attention back to the conversation.

”Perhaps. With luck, and the help of crannogmen. We must avoid a siege at any cost. Moat Cailin is a death trap.”

”Aye,” comes Sandor’s rasp of a voice, ”but so are these damned marches. Those crannogmen could just as well lead us to our deaths.”

”Howland Reed was a dear friend of our lord father,” says Arya. ”He will lend aid to our cause.”

”Many years have passed since Ned Stark left the North,” he says. ”Loyalties can change.”

”House Reed has not sworn to the Boltons,” says Thoros. ”If it means avoiding the choke point, I’m willing to trust them.”

”I do not know much of this house, but I will trust the judgement of our ladies.” Lord Edric turns to Sansa. ”Lady Sansa?”

”Our father trusted Lord Howland. I will, too.” Once again she hears Sandor shift in his seat. _He is not pleased by this,_ she thinks with uncertainty seeping into her mind. _He does not need to be pleased, as long as he’s not killed in a hopeless siege,_ decides a sensible part of her mind. Sense, however, does not command her heart. Unease spreads through her limbs all through the remainder of the council. She manages to steal a moment alone with him in her pavilion after the girls have left, and Arya is away doing Seven knows what.

”Little bird?” He stands a couple of meters from her, open posture, expecting her. She hesitates. His face falls.

”Do you…” She searches for the right words. ”Are you displeased with our plan?”

He raises his eyebrows. ”What does it matter if I am?” Two long strides and he is in front of her, strong arms enveloping her. ”I said I’d follow you.”

She allows herself to relax against him, and he continues:

”I’ll keep you safe, just as I said I would. Those crannogmen with their greensight and skinchanging, it just doesn’t seem right.”

She stiffens, draws away from him. _Can he not see?_

”Little bird?” he says once more, brow furrowing.

”Arya will be back soon,” she says, because it’s all she can think to say. At first, she thinks he will stay anyway. She almost wishes he would. But though he moves slowly, he leaves her pavilion, and she is alone with her thought. _Dangerous company these days, my thoughts_. Sansa sinks down on a fauldstool and holds herself, shivering even though there is a lit brazier right next to her. _’If it means keeping you whole I’ll gladly commit treason’,_ that’s what he said. _He does not trust my judgement_. The realization stings, perhaps even more so than the fact that she does not dare tell him about the dreams. She had almost expected him to understand. Arya had. _But she is of the North. He is not_. With that thought lingering in her mind, she decides to go to bed, longing for sleep to quiet her mind.

—

It is a tense couple of days that follow. He is nothing if not courteous with her, and that in itself unsettles her. They do not have any time alone, nor does she attempt to arrange it. _Is this my fault?_ she thinks, hearing the steady trot of Stranger’s heavy hooves behind her. _Should I apologize?_ He is southron after all. Greensight and skinchanging are things of the North. It is not so strange that he is apprehensive. But perhaps it is not that. Perhaps it is the North in itself. They both know the value of her hand in marriage. Sansa wonders, sometimes if she was cruel to let her guard down so, to have him even as she knew it could not last. _But he knew as well. Oh, Sandor_. A snowflake melts slowly on her hand holding the reins. _Sandor, Sandor, Sandor. It is as I thought. You have brought me as much guilt as you have pleasure_.

”There’s someone up ahead.” Lord Edric leans towards her as he relays this information. She narrows her eyes, tries to look past the row of guards in front of them, but still sees nothing.

”We’re still a week from Moat Cailin,” she says, but prays that it is not Bolton men all the same. Arya rides at the back of the retinue with Thoros and Lady Brienne, and the road is too narrow here to send someone back with a message.

The mist seems to part as they approach, and now she sees them: three figures, short and squat, two with bows and one with a spear.

”Crannogmen,” she tells Lord Edric. ”Don’t draw weapons.”

He relays the order to the guards, and soon, they are close enough to see the men clearly. They are all dressed in greens and browns, melting in perfectly with the dull colours of the marches around them. Sansa holds up her hand, and slowly, the entire retinue comes to a halt. The spear-carrying man, standing between the other two, is the one who speaks.

”Lady Stark?” His voice is croaky, but it carries in the heavy silence of the bog. His hair falls in a long, thin braid down one shoulder.

Sansa only nods, when the two guards in front of her have parted as much as they can on the narrow road.

”I am Fellen Cray, sent here by my lord Howland Reed. He wishes to invite you and your lady sister to Greywater Watch.”

”I would be honoured to accept the invitation,” she says carefully. ”However, I worry that our retinue shall not be able to make it safely there across the marches.”

Fellen Cray turns to his companions, and they seem to silently confer among themselves, uttering no words but seemingly coming to a understanding nonetheless.

”We will guide you safely to the Watch, my lady,” says Cray. ”We did not expect so many of you, but we will do our best to extend our hospitality. Come. The Watch is still close.” With that, the three men unceremoniously turn, and jump right off of the causeway. What looked like deep slush-mixed waters prove to be nothing but a shallow puddle, barely reaching up to the men’s ankles. Taking a deep breath, Sansa nods to Lord Edric and urges her horse forward. The retinue follows into the marches, and one by one, they are all swallowed by the mist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the very late chapter, I've been off living that Authentic Medieval Life™ of dancing, drinking mead and crying over pretty fabrics. (and since I could not have any diamond twill wool fabric, I gave a dress made from it to Sansa ._.)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! <3 Please let me know what you think. Comments feed the word beast, etc.


End file.
